And Mrs. Anna stood looking down upon her sister with grave perturbed face. “Ferringhall, were you or were you not dining last night at a certain restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes with—la petite Pellissier?” Now indeed Sir John was moved. The flat was apparently empty. A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. She hated the manor. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world. ” She taunted. “Some day,” she answered.
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