He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. He was in love with her! She tried to grasp all the welter of values in the situation simultaneously, and draw some conclusion from their disorder. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. So absorbed was she by her passionate supplications that she was insensible to anything passing around her, until she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and heard a well-known voice breathe in her ear—"Mother!" She started at the sound as if an apparition had called her, screamed, and fell into her son's outstretched arms. "Call me Hoddy. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. It was Jack, wasn’t it?’ ‘Aye, s-sir. ‘Gerald had to change both shirt and breeches. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. What you say is probably all true and necessary.
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