He could scarcely blame her. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. “I go to private school right now. ” He took his place by her side, and they talked lightly of London, the shops and people. By the will of Mr. Spurling had retired for the night. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened.
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