I will return to Manchester at once. Moments are ages now. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne. And now, come and sit by me, my dear, and let's have a little quiet chat together. ‘The major thinks she’s worth it,’ put in Prudence quietly. Well, whenever you say, I promise to do away with the mystery. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. That won’t involve references, as a bank account would—and all that sort of thing. ” He strode away and vanished in the gathering fog. She saw herself in very much Vivie’s position—managing something.
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