Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excite the cynical commentary which men applied to certain types of blondes. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. Her moods were many and always striking. She attempted by a sheer act of will to end the scene, to will herself out of it anywhere. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. After that, we'll go our several ways. What a heat that news had wrought. It came with an extreme effect of re-discovery, a remarkable novelty. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered.
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