So it would always be between herself and Manning. It was not the arrival of the guests, but merely the maid moving about in the hall. For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. She looked at him mournfully. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. He was going to tell me something— and he shut up. She repeated this breathlessly. She opened and read it at once. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. They mean everything that women can mean—except submission.
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