He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. He slid out of her. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. A dozen shynesses and intellectual barriers were being outflanked or broken down in her mind. And you talk like that! What the devil have you been up to, to land in this bog?" It was a cast at random. ” “He seems like such a nice boy.
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