At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. Thinking of Mantua, she wandered to the courtyard. It could not be she who had done this. You heard her. ” She marked an hotel that seemed neither opulent nor odd in a little side street opening on the Embankment, made up her mind with an effort, and, returning by Hungerford Bridge to Waterloo, took a cab to this chosen refuge with her two pieces of luggage. She felt draggled and insulted beyond redemption. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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