It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald. “It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier. “May I sit beside you?” “It’s a very difficult one,” said her aunt. I keep on thinking of you. She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover. ‘Well, I thought as how someone in the house in Paddington might see me hanging about outside like.
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