Her mind jumped with questions as fear raced through her and hardened into a bid for retaliation. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. She had to do her thinking at home—under inspection. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day.
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