Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved. He had quite enough to see to and worry about in the City without their doing things. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. The pistol fell to the floor. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. ’ Le Petit Journal said that the man was dead. She decided to go out into the London afternoon again and get something to eat in an Aerated Bread shop or some such place, and perhaps find a cheap room for herself. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience.
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