Her little white hand stole across the table. We were going at a mad pace. ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ protested Hilary angrily. 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. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served.
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