After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. Time was moving so fast, she could no longer count the days since Gosse had come to her with his preposterous suggestion at the Coq d’Or, where they were staying and where he had robbed her and left her and Martha to their fate. “You did not wish to see him particularly this evening, then?” Anna hesitated. “We’ll go to a place where we can have a private room,” he said.
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