Sheppard, raising herself, and looking at him as if her life depended upon the answer. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. “In Paris your sister appeared to me to be a charming student of frivolity. Wood having laid hold of the canvass-bag. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. Suddenly he understood what had happened. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity.
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