She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. "I wouldn't force him for the world: but if he don't tip the stivers, may I be cursed if he don't get a taste of the aqua pompaginis. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar. ’ She was obliged to acknowledge the justice of this complaint, and moved further into the passage to allow the men access. I hope—I am sure that he did not see me.
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