A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. “They have no plans for us. If he succeeds there, I do not know how I can prove myself. He had changed her life dramatically, and she had missed him dreadfully. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. I believe I’m in love. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one. Luckily I’m not.
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