He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. E. She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. She is no more English than that set of beggars over there. “This is my way back to my side of the Park,” she said. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. The perspiration stood out upon his forehead.
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