The woman shrugged her shoulders. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. We sha’n’t hang up on any misunderstanding. These things did not harmonize with his conception of the forthcoming (if unavoidable) interview. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. It was obvious that he had waited for her. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. ‘There are no Remenhams left. See paragraph 1. E.
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