“You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. “I doubted my luck, at least. It seemed as if all the precautions previously taken were here accumulated. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. ’ She smiled on the last words, adding, ‘Oh, I don’t blame you for trying. Montague Hill. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do.
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