The moviegoers exited the cinema in the customary daze that resulted from two hours of sensory bombardment. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. “Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?” with a low bow. It had ceased now, but as he closed in on the area, a faint muttering came to his ears. He stopped short with a little exclamation of surprise. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. "Why, this is your writing Dolly, and addressed to Mr. Do you see why I have hidden the terrible things from you? I chose you because you are my perfect mate. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman. So many distresses— so many joys coming at the same time are too much for me.
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