His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. “I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. Sheppard, I'm sure, will say as much for you. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. “I don’t see there’s any getting away from the fact that you and I love each other,” he said, slowly. “Mrs. ” “I suppose we are,” said Vee, rearranging the flowers in her hand. It was not in evidence here, not a sign of it.
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