There were a lot of men's clubs in London a few years ago. Men went there and read their newspaper quietly, or drank or had meals with their friends.
All of these men's clubs had a lot of very good servants. At every club one of the servants was a doorman. Mr Grace was the doorman of one of these clubs. He was fifty-five years old, and he had grey hair and a big grey moustache. The telephone rang in his office at six o'clock in the evening, and a woman spoke to him. She said, 'Are you the doorman of the George Club?'
'Yes, I am, 'Mr Grace answered.
'Please give my husband a message, 'the woman said.
'Your husband isn't at the club this evening,' Mr Grace answered.
'But I haven't told you his name!' the woman said angrily.
'That isn't necessary,' Mr Grace answered. 'No husband is ever at the club.'
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