“Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. Solomon Smith seemed to be Mr. Supposing the wire should break and her head tumble off her shoulders into the street? The whimsey caused another smile to ripple across her lips. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse.
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