She passed down the stairs and into the street. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips.
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