Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. ‘Can’t see a thing. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. “It’s—it’s a difficult question. ” She laughed. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. It’s the public entrance.
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