‘What is it that you told him?’ ‘Nothing, miss, I swear. When first you left your home you had no idea that I was the hidden impulse. ” She shrugged her shoulders. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict. I may as well think. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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