CHAPTER IV. ” “I think I am. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. He’s a footman who works for the nuns and has taken up the cudgels on her behalf. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to.
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