. ” “It’s too far for the ball to reach us,” said Miss Klegg. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. Men and women are not established things; they’re experiments, all of them. There would be no way of keeping her police questioning a secret from the entire neighborhood. She found herself trying on the baubles he brought home, placing the silver rings upon her slim fingers, knowing that he would take up her hand and kiss it. 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. “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire.
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