It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. He pressed his lips to her with a much greater force than she had anticipated. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. At last in a street near the Hampstead Road she hit upon a room that had an exceptional quality of space and order, and a tall woman with a kindly face to show it. Such was the effect produced upon the passengers by his good looks and manly deportment, that few—especially of the gentler and more susceptible sex—failed to turn round and bestow a second glance upon the handsome stranger. “She cannot be aware,” he continued, “that she is making herself conspicuous. I heard rumours of it in Paris, and the place since then has been closed.
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