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. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. I can't keep a good man beyond three pay-days.
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