Gosse sagged under the impact, knocking over the card table, and falling to sit, half stunned, the discharged pistol flying from his slackened grasp. "Old Morgan the trader," she explained, "used to save me Tit-Bits. Hadn’t the stomach to admit the truth, had he? I’ll lay any money he labelled you with some foul French name as well. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. The beautiful city that she had been awed by and even grown to love had been abandoned. ‘You were right, miss.
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