For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. He laughed at her heartily, and she laughed too as she had not for a year. ‘Ah, now I may see what damage Gérard has done to me,’ she muttered, crossing to the table and putting her hand to the sore place at her neck. If this success continued, it would be easy to assume the name of Taber. Ludicrously loud sounds streamed from the array of speakers. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. Give me my pistol and my dagger. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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