“Yes?” he said. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. That’s why he was so annoyed, you know. They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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