She was looking anxiously at the entrance to the restaurant. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. It was cheating, pitiful cheating. It’s an instinct. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. She immediately took the pillows from under the head of the man who had two names, released the collar and tie, and arranged the arms alongside the body. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs.
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