The manager twisted his moustache. “Before I took up the Suffrage,” a firm, flat voice remarked, “I could scarcely walk up-stairs without palpitations. Until two hours ago she was as contented and as happy as a linnet. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. “Do not be frightened, dear,” she said. And the grotesquest fact was that she did not so much loathe, as experience with a quite critical condemnation this strange sensation of being kissed. There were two.
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