Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. ‘How do you do? I am so happy to meet you. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. Utter silence answered him. How will I protect myself if you do not?’ ‘If you will only confide in me, I will be happy to protect you,’ Gerald said cheerfully. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming.
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