“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. 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. It was enough that she witnessed it and could not go to him. I spied a small picture of them in your house, though. Men do services for the love of women, and the woman who takes must pay. ” “I MUST talk with you. Mrs.
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