Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. Then blackness. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. . She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. “How could he call except in your absence, as you are never at home in the afternoon. He may not know you’re in England, but if he has the smallest knowledge of your character, he must surely be expecting you.
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