Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. A row of magnificent, and even then venerable, elms threw their broad arms over this pleasant spot. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. The smile had become a laugh. Earles recovered his spirits. You are somebody’s secretary, are you not?” It was plain that the subject was distasteful to her, but Ennison, although famous in a small way for his social tact, did not at once discard it. She tipped his mouth towards her own and kissed him. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. The Leads.
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