It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. But she certainly remembered that when she was a little girl he sometimes wore tennis flannels, and also rode a bicycle very dexterously in through the gates to the front door. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis.
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