Hill lost a little of his truculency. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. He got out of the car and lifted her from the convertible before she could open the door. It seems he does not inherit the title. That was the true marvel of it. It was a mass of knick-knacks.
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