His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. ’ ‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’ ‘Hardly. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane.
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