Suddenly she felt her wrist grasped by a strong hand. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. Finally she decided that even for an hotel she must look round, and that meanwhile she would “book” her luggage at Waterloo. ’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic.
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