Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. But Miss Stanley took no notice of these things. ’ Taking the chair she had indicated with a careless wave of one stiff-fingered hand, Gerald felt hope burgeoning. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent.
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