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Updated: May 15, 2025
He seized it, and, scrutinizing the loop, read in yellow letters: "Quayther & Cuthering, 47 Vigo Street, W." He knew that Quayther & Cuthering must be the tailors of Sir Nicholas Winkworth, and hence first-class. Hoping for the best, and putting his trust in the general decency of human nature, he did not trouble himself with the problem: was the overcoat a gift or an appropriation?
He drove to Quayther & Cuthering's in his electric brougham and there dropped casually the name of Winkworth.
The old suit, though it had cost five guineas in its time, looked a paltry and a dowdy thing as it lay, flung down anyhow, on one of Messrs Quayther & Cuthering's cane chairs in the mirrored cubicle where baronets and even peers showed their braces to the benign Mr. Cuthering. "I want to go to Piccadilly Circus now. Stop at the fountain," said Edward Henry to his chauffeur.
But he preferred to assume the generosity of Sir Nicholas rather than the dishonesty of Joseph. Repassing the bathroom door he knocked loudly on its glass. "Don't be all day!" he cried. He was in a hurry now. An hour later he said to Joseph: "I'm going down to Quayther & Cuthering's." "Yes, sir," said Joseph, obviously much reassured. "Nincompoop!" Edward Henry exclaimed secretly.
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