Drummond took up a cigarette and lit it. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. He resolved to judge for himself. His arms were naturally big and his chest was covered with a smattering of soft hairs. 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. “She means to go. “No!” “Don’t try and stop me.
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