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His chin shone from a ten minutes' old shave, his hair clove to his head like fresh laid paint and the crease in his trousers was razor edged. "Most awfully sorry, dear hearts," he exclaimed in clamourous apology. "Deuce of a late night at Thingumy's ball. Do excuse." From which the reader may assume that his lordship was a bit of an ass but no.
"So glad to see you, old man! we were hoping you would turn up. Better late than never. Isn't it a crush? I assure you our evenings are becoming quite an institution. You will find scores of people you know here. Excuse my leaving you. Not much like the old studio days, eh? Afternoon tea with Copal's cups and saucers, and Mrs. Thingumy's tea-cakes.
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