Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. Here was an instrument which might be of the greatest service to him in accomplishing his design. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. She rested her head upon his shoulder. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. ‘Are you going to come quietly, mademoiselle?’ he demanded with grim determination. You don’t happen to know of any one, I suppose, who wants a nursery governess, or a clerk—without shorthand—or a tryer-on, or a copyist, or——” “For Heaven’s sake stop, Miss Pellissier,” he interrupted.
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