His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. All superfine holland. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self.
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