Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years. ’ ‘Yes, but how are you going to find her?’ ‘I will ask—’ She broke off. " "What?" "We'll put those stories back into the trunk and never speak of them to him. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed.
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