I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. On the other hand, there was a subconscious impression that she would be able to read instantly anything unclean in a man's eye. If she spoke to a policeman she did not know what would ensue. On her lapel was an ivory button, bearing the words “Votes for Women. ’ The fellow seized on this. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. Are you quite shure you haven't another alyas, Masther Thames Ditton?" "Darrell, I tell you.
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