At least here she was safe. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Wood. “It is not, of course, a pleasant subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture to suggest to you that your sister’s—er—indiscretions—have reached a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. A quarter of an hour passed. I don't want her hurt. “Am I hurting you?” She asked. I couldn’t help the thought. "You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland," he said, after he had twice counted them, "or I've missed my reckoning.
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