‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. The young man looked at her. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. We both understood that. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. 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.
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