She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. After he was gone in the morning, Ruth would steal into the study and hurriedly read what he had written the previous night. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. ’ ‘But I have told you not,’ she protested. I hated him. " Voices being heard at the door, Austin flew to open it, and admitted Mr.
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