It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. If he ran less risk of being blown over, he stood a much greater chance of being washed off, or stifled. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man.
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