I hear my chair in the hall; and to keep Lord Marchmont waiting, when he has announced his intention of supping at home, far exceeds my prerogative; so good night, dearest, you will either see or hear from me to-morrow.
He dimmed the lights and put on soft music.
Eventually the tale of a stagehand who seemed to be separated from his housebound wife, but, oddly, not when she came to visit, seemed more amusing than appalling, and I learned not to wince at the various (sometimes painfully) young women who arrived breathless and eager for a Showmance—whether or not there was a wife in the background. [sic]
As though he’d been passed out on the floor all these years or zombied out on weed like that idiot Ferd.
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