And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. “Of course,” he ventured, “I could try for more at the ‘Alhambra. O God! O God!" And he appeared convulsed with agony. After all, it was really rather funny. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella.
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