She twisted her fingers tightly. ‘But Gérard—if you mean the fellow Alderley who was making eyes at Yolande—is not here. This door was crested with spikes, and guarded on the right by a bristling semicircle of spikes. "I've known him all my life," replied the other. To receive him here afterwards would be most repugnant to me. 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.
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