Mr. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. He was heartily thankful for it.
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