She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. So that as she saw him she remarked to herself very faintly but definitely, “Oh, golly!” and set up a campaign of avoidance that Mr. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently.
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