Plus he’s a genius. " "You might have added 'then'," said Miss Spurlock, drily. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Her thoughts were busy with the possibilities of this break in her journey. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham.
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