The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. Manning loomed up ever and again into her world, full of a futile solicitude, and almost always declaring she was splendid, splendid, and wishing he could talk things out with her. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. “Ferringhall, were you or were you not dining last night at a certain restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes with—la petite Pellissier?” Now indeed Sir John was moved.
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