‘Parbleu, I hope that I do not have many more times to come in this way to the house,’ she muttered fretfully. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. Her head had been shaved, and around it was swathed a piece of rag, in which a few straws were stuck. For my own part, I don't see in what way it is to be accomplished, except by the payment of our customary fees. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. ‘Well! I hadn’t no notion as he’d got hisself married again. It is but a wild threat.
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