After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. ’ ‘That was hardly the impression I got,’ Gerald murmured, remembering Melusine’s attitude to Leonardo. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approaching animosity. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy.
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