And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. Gosse would have killed me, and perhaps in the fight I might kill him. . She leaned a little towards him. 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. ‘And then you will be obliged to remain in France,’ she pointed out. .
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