Both Spurlock and McClintock stood by their chairs until she was gone. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. ‘Never trust a gun in female hands,’ grumbled Hilary, dropping the nun’s habit and backing to join his friend. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. "This is our last transaction together.
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