She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. As the secret door opened, the sounds within the house came at once to her ears: the tramping of feet above, and the hoarse voices echoing through the mansion. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. She bussed his cheek with her small lips as he stood by the open door, and exited alone towards the sleeping house.
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