But her heart kept on sinking. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. We aren't between him and heaven; he is between us and heaven. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. There are so many girls nowadays who are quite unpresentable at tea, with their untrimmed laughs, their awful dispositions of their legs when they sit down, their slangy disrespect; they no longer smoke, it is true, like the girls of the eighties and nineties, nevertheless to a fine intelligence they have the flavor of tobacco.
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