His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. For a time he and Miss Klegg contradicted one another. He was not used to not getting his way. . "When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. ” “Oh!” he said, in a colorless tone, and with his eyes on her face. All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song. 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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