She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. Too late she realised that Emile was not trying to escape. Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. Just a formal marriage. .
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