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CHAPTER VIII. Nigel, you have not forgotten!” “No,” he said, with a little bitter smile. He moaned. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. It was hot and dry. “You’re not interested in politics?” he asked, almost with a note of protest. Perhaps once it had desired some other human being intolerably. "What is your name?" To-day, however, he broke the monotony.
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