It was a refusal of expediency, he said, and not an absolute refusal. My wife—killed me. Perhaps I ought to have let you order the dinner, but I think I got through it pretty well. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness.
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