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"You know," he said to Cecil Grainger, who happened to be gracing his wife's dinner-party, "she's the sort of woman for whom a man might consent to live in Venice." "And she's the sort of woman," replied, "a man couldn't get to go to Venice." Lord Ayllington's sigh was a proof of an intimate knowledge of the world. "I suppose not," he said. "It's always so.
"You know," he said to Cecil Grainger, who happened to be gracing his wife's dinner-party, "she's the sort of woman for whom a man might consent to live in Venice." "And she's the sort of woman," replied, "a man couldn't get to go to Venice." Lord Ayllington's sigh was a proof of an intimate knowledge of the world. "I suppose not," he said. "It's always so.
"You know," he said to Cecil Grainger, who happened to be gracing his wife's dinner-party, "she's the sort of woman for whom a man might consent to live in Venice." "And she's the sort of woman," replied, "a man couldn't get to go to Venice." Lord Ayllington's sigh was a proof of an intimate knowledge of the world. "I suppose not," he said. "It's always so.
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