He dared not go on. “It was very tiring. You will do as I say, or—’ ‘Hoy!’ called Trodger from down the hall. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. The affair was thick with sinister suggestions. Reaction set in and she leapt at him, beating at his chest with her fists. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured. The prisoner breathed with difficulty. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous.
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