Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. And afterwards! Sir John drew his cigar from his lips, and looked upwards where the white-lights flashed strangely amongst the deep cool green of the lime-trees. Man, if you tell her you love her, and later they took you away to prison, who would sit at the prison gate until your term was up? Ruth.
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