She leaned over and kissed his cheek innocently. "Enough," said the widow, gratefully. It ought never to have begun. “I was sick of the make-believe. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. Having accomplished his intent, Gerald let the lad go and had himself driven back to Stratton Street. 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. “Cheveney!” she repeated.
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