He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. “Perhaps, as I’ve only just arrived,” she remarked, “I might be forgiven if I do not change my skirt.
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