Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. She got home every night in time to cook supper and it was good money. Arrived there, the porter thundered at the massive door of the Lodge, which was instantly opened—Shotbolt's note having been received just before. “It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. ” She picked at her sandwich idly.
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