” “I am going to ask more than a favour,” she said slowly. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. He had something across his knees. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. "Well, how goes it?" he asked.
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