John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. Sadly, the Christmas break came to an end. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. A minute pressure inwards showed him that it was not locked. “Your brother has gone?” she asked Sydney, between the courses. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap.
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