‘Oh, I do love a flatterer. ‘Wait! No time for that. Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. She parted the curtains to find him standing there. "So did I," answered Jack; "we had better move on. 3. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. Why do you think I’m indulging in all this very un-English love talk?’ ‘But you are idiot, Gérard.
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