She controlled herself, and answered meekly, “No. “I’m sorry Mister McCloskey! I was out seeing my boyfriend!” He stared at her concernedly. Still, it was rather terrible to suspect that one had fallen from grace, but nevertheless the thing was possible. “I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. Charcoal.
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