‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile. But David Courtlaw has been here. You know you don’t mean it. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. “Yes,” she answered, looking away.
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