By the middle of July he was in full health. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. "But your threats won't prevent my leaving the room when I please, and as I please. “Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. It was something that would create a mutual claim, a relationship. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. ‘Come along. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position.
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