“My dear Anna,” he answered. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. ‘Where is Gérard?’ ‘Out of town,’ Hilary said briefly. He lives in constant dread of a reappearance of ‘La Belle Alcide,’ and hearing it said that she is his wife’s sister. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow.
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