Italians. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. "We're forgetting," he said. Now then. And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse.
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