Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. ‘Léonore, then?’ She shook her head animatedly, enjoying his attention. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. "You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who did his best to get your child's neck twisted.
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