And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. She thought of all sorts of odd and desperate expedients, and with passionate petulance rejected them all. Madame shrugged. As you admitted to me—one has to square one’s self with the world. Someone, it appeared, was trying to profit from that fact. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames.
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