It would be an ice storm by midnight if it did not let up. And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night.
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