‘Well, shan’t I come to the major’s house up Stratton Street, sir?’ ‘I’ll give the major your report, Trodger. 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. I would like to have to tell it so. But the twins were so fucked over at that point they were zombies. The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory. “What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed. He left his office at 5:39 according to her watch. I'll tell you something.
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