Part 3 She dressed carefully for dinner in a black dress that her father liked, and that made her look serious and responsible. On the north stood the battlements of one of the towers of the gate. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. Aware of the footman hovering, and the hackney coachman’s curious eyes looking down from his box, Gerald leaned a little towards her and spoke in a lowered tone. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. "Kiss me. . As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her.
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