Explore "The Moving Finger" by E. Phillips Oppenheim on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Saton turned out of Bond Street, and climbed the stairs of a little tea-shop with the depressed feeling of a man who is expiating an offence which he bitterly repents. Violet was waiting for him at one of the tables shut off from the main room by a sort of Japanese matting hanging from the ceiling. He resigned his stick and hat with a sigh to one of the trim waitresses, and sat down opposite her.
"My dear Violet," he said, "this is an unexpected pleasure. I thought that Wednesday was quite one of your busiest days."