This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn’t it—wasn’t it rather in some respects—rather a lark? It’s one of my regrets for my lost youth. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. That's a queer yarn.
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