On his return to the room, Jonathan purposely left the door of the Well Hole ajar. A faint anticipation of triumph showed in his manner and a subdued excitement. It wasn’t pretty. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. His grip twisted her wrist. Her faithful servant struggled, with her assistance, to rise. She became aware of his presence as she had never been aware of any human being in her life before.
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