“MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. " But she did not complete the thought aloud. That is why you came here, isn’t it?’ ‘Alors, now we know who is the spy, Monsieur Gérard. If he senses fear in the touch of your hand, he'll give you trouble. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. ” “Again,” he said, “I am going to be impertinent. She had had two days of employment-seeking now. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet. They either ran to see or ran for shelter.
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