She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. I will not be sent away. ’ ‘Sir!’ came from Trodger, and the booted feet clattered off and out of the front door. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. I struck him across the face, jumped out and went back by train to Paris.
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