And she was as shrewd as they come. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. “I don’t want to take up your time. ” “You fellows,” Ennison said quietly, “are getting a little wild. We men are like children. Mere formality. ” She pulled a small blue box out of the pocket of her hoodie. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.
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