At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. Michelle had warned her of the girl, calling her “Bitchster”. Stow it in the saddle, for I will take it with me. It was an impulse. ‘My name’s NOT More, Mr. Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. If I could but——” To escape from her thoughts she began to undress, humming a light tune to herself, though her eyes were hot with unshed tears, and the sobs kept rising in her throat.
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