Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. He wiped the sweat from his chin and forehead. His face turned a dark crimson. No doubt she was wondering what he had done in Charvill’s house and what he intended now. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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