The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. ‘Champion?’ ‘The lad you saw following her. She has no proof—yet. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered.
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