He shivered and looked behind as he stepped into his hansom. The smile had become a laugh. A lot of girls have had it in for him but he must be picky or something because he didn’t go to Junior Prom even though I know he got asked. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. It’s a mismatch.
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