Explore "The White Glove" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The sweet face in the tangle of golden hair looked strangely out of place there. One does not usually meet with such beauty and refinement in a dingy restaurant where bread and butter is retailed by the slice and the coffee makes a tardy appearance in a pint pot. And yet the shabby hat and worn, thin jacket told a tale. As Clifford Marsh glanced at his wife a passionate anger shook him, and a yearning look came into his honest, grey eyes.
"I'm sorry I brought you here, darling," he said. "But when one comes down to one's last sovereign--Well, well. But I'm not beaten yet."