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III
Coming out of the office, Beatrice Lippincott called, “Lily.” An adenoidal girl with a giggle and
pale boiled-gooseberry eyes responded to the summons.
“Can you manage for a bit, Lily? I’ve got to see about some linen.”
Lily said, “Oh, yes, Miss Lippincott,” gave a giggle and added, sighing gustily: “I do think
Mr. Hunter’s ever so good-looking, don’t you?”
“Ah, I’ve seen a lot of his type in the war,” said Miss Lippincott, with a world-weary air.
“Young pilots and suchlike from the fighter station. Never could be sure about their cheques.
Often had such a way with them that you’d cash the things against your better judgment. But, of
course, I’m funny that way, Lily, what I like is class. Give me class every time. What I say is a
gentleman’s a gentleman even if he does drive a tractor.” With which enigmatic
pronouncement Beatrice left Lily and went up the stairs.
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