” He resumed, after a mouthful: “Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen, seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, in London. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. “Why?” he asked, suavely. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. I can see the whole thing was just a set-up for sequels, though. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. He did not leave much of an 17 impression.
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