I have only just left Wych Street. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. “I have not left this apartment myself. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. . Then he had gone away. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. On your own. She resumed her on guard position, and glaring steadily at him, waited again.
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