I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man. As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. “I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you. Your maid has twenty minutes to pack your dressing case for one night, and you have the same time to change into a travelling dress. She has never done a really ignoble thing that I know of— never.
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