I forget. 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. Such pretty manners, she thought. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. “You too sing?” he asked.
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