The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. 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.
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