She wondered what the problem was, why the buildup? She wanted to go to his apartment that evening but stayed herself. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. She looked in the glass over and over as she checked for lint and makeup streaks. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. "Oh gracious! he's lost. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not.
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