The wings stopped. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. I’ve never muffed an exam yet. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him. But when she saw the car, her body filled with dread, for it gave her a bad feeling. 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.
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