Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. He held in his hands many threads. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. ‘You’d do the same. Let's get one idea into our heads.
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