It was an impulse. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. “Why should I bear the burden of your wickedness? Who knows what might come of it? I shall permit nothing of the sort.
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