He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. "But what, may I ask, arouses the thought?" The doctor was in high good humour. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. To-morrow they will know the truth.
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