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The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. Now I know that you don’t live as close to the Beck house as you once pretended. Flinging her back against it, she put her hands out, barring his way. Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. ’ ‘From you,’ the lady threw at him furiously. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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