She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. Husband of mine, I think we have rather overrated the emotional capacity of those—those dears. It was Ennison, who loomed up through the shadows.
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