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. You would suffer the torments of the damned for what you had done. She entered the last room, his bedroom. She, having all the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the contents—a letter and a check. He's now in spring-ankle warehouse with Sir Rowland Trenchard. " "Surely, you haven't stolen it?" "Stolen's an awkward word.
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