At once there came an answering knock. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. “Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again. .
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