Indeed, a lady quietly remarked to the writer, with that exquisite sweet malice wherewith French ladies so much delight to acu-punctuate their English sisters, I have never seen any English lady handle her fan nearly so gracefully as that Basque boy does; they ALWAYS make themselves in a heat by blowing so hard, but look at him.
It was called the wickedest street in London and the entrance was just here. I imagine the mouth of the road lay between this lamp standard and the second from the next down there.
Each Pet Rock came in a cardboard carrying case, complete with air holes, tenderly nestled on a bed of excelsior.
I offered, greatheartedly and at once, to take them both out to the expensive French place in Dawn Street (I got a birthday bonus from work, too. £25. Happy birthday, Terry).
