‘Jacques!’ She got no further, for Kimble came towards her, speaking fast and low. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. The looming face was 71 over her own once again, and arms as strong as iron bars held her down. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand.
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