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He was amazed at himself to feel jealousy hot in him as he put the question. There was no one else at the moment; but she sat thinking and playing with the stem of her wineglass, and keeping a half-cynical, half-simpering silence. It was the veil with which she shrouded her stupidity while she debated the pros and cons with herself as deliberately as she had spoken.
"Hallo, Bultitude!" he said, "I thought it was you. Here we are again, eh? Ugh!" and he giggled dismally. He was a pale-faced boy with freckles, very light green eyes, long, rather ragged black hair, a slouching walk, and a smile half-simpering, half-impudent. Mr. Bultitude was greatly staggered by the presumption of so small a boy venturing to address him in this way.
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