"Stop a minute," cried Jack, detaining his mistresses. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. "Clean and spotless, but beginning to show the wear and tear of constant use. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. It’s for you to say if I may sit on it. I hope that some day he'll understand how much he owes you.
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