It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. He answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever of the matter—had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up. “Well?” she said. I have given up painting. ‘You, Mademoiselle Charvill, are as unlike most of your sex as you can be.
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