She made noises between weeping and laughter as she went. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. But he had shown no desire for information, no curiosity. ‘She’s still bleeding. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied.
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