She was discussing one of those modern advanced plays with a remarkable, with an extraordinary, confidence. Her grave fine face, her warm clear complexion, had already aroused his curiosity as he had gone to and fro in Morningside Park, and here suddenly he was near to her and talking freely and intimately. With the aid of a penknife he ripped the shoulder seams and drew out the ten one-thousand dollar bills. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. ‘Too late by the time I realised to what a dunderhead I’d pledged my friendship.
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