You must forgive the poet’s license I take. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. Almost had Martha won out. “Dear friend,” she said, “this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best. “Never mind the bill,” said Manning tragically, standing up and thrusting a four-shilling piece into her hand, and turning a broad back on her astonishment. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. It forbids—all sorts of things.
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