The sound of her flying feet brought Gerald leaping for the door. That’s as far as we go. It’s an instinct. I struck him across the face, jumped out and went back by train to Paris. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. She had finally managed to start breaking him down. So I am already no longer the girl you knew at Morningside Park.
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