I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. “Good God!” he exclaimed. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. And in its way it was very well. He looked at her with an expression of comical despair.
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