Mr. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. He looked at his friend. ’ ‘I don’t know,’ confessed Gerald. E. He never finished his sentence. Aware of the footman hovering, and the hackney coachman’s curious eyes looking down from his box, Gerald leaned a little towards her and spoke in a lowered tone. She was now permitted freely to study the face. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. No one in the world is beyond the shaft of scandal— we all catch it terribly sometimes. He had not remembered her as looking so small.
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