They became aware of the waitress standing over them with book and pencil ready for their bill. Fortescue, with a bow. "Once there," proceeded Wild, without noticing the interruption, "he's as good as in his grave. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. “No,” she said at last; “I’m a human being—not a timid female. But are we any more free?” “Well?” “I mean we’ve long strings to tether us, but we are bound all the same.
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