"Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. Spurling," rejoined Ireton; "we can taste the rum when he returns. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. He can come round there. As he passed out he saw in the hall a quietly dressed man with keen grey eyes, talking to one of the footmen.
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