From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk. No; she'd never go back. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. If he got her outside, surely the soldiers would see her and intervene. How many nuns were there in England who might have occasion to spy on Lady Bicknacre’s ballroom? The presence of the French refugees took on greater significance. She had been careless.
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