Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. ’ At that, a flush drenched her cheeks and she snatched her hand away. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. Her recent attitude towards him was undoubtedly a pose. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. ” “I am staying,” she answered coolly, “at a small boarding-house near Russell Square. ” “Can’t we arrange something? Can’t we make a sort of treaty?” “He wouldn’t keep it.
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