A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. After all, Hilary must be near returned by now. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed.
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