Gerald sympathised with his friend’s irritation. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. 'Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord;' that's my comfort. . . She cursed herself for a fool. But I do hope, Vee, I do hope—this is the end of these adventures. Lucy sat in back of Jane Lenihan, who never spoke to her. I wonder——” He turned slowly round. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Nor, he would wager, had the heroic Monsieur Valade, who had rescued her from that life and brought her to England, taught her in that short time all that Gerald was certain she knew of men. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. On the contrary.
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