A fever of shame ran through her being. “It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier. She refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. ‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his.
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