P. G. Wodehouse: The Man with Two Left Feet

3. WILTON'S HOLIDAY (continued)

Wilton sighed. It was lonely sitting there all by himself. How much jollier it would have been if--

A hand touched his shoulder, and a voice spoke--meekly.

'Jack, dear, it--it's awfully cold. Don't you think if we were to--snuggle up--'

He reached out and folded her in an embrace which would have aroused the professional enthusiasm of Hackenschmidt and drawn guttural congratulations from Zbysco. She creaked, but did not crack, beneath the strain.

'That's much nicer,' she said, softly. 'Jack, I don't think the tide's started even to think of going down yet.'

'I hope not,' said Wilton.

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