She whispered, “Another car is coming,” as lights approached their car. And Ritter’s, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. ‘Take this.
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