She got to the driveway and was semi-surprised to see that his car was gone. Captain Hilary Roding and his inamorata, Miss Lucilla Froxfield. It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone. You don’t have to live forever to understand that. She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him.
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