On Monday Charvill had still not returned, and the major duly presented himself at Mrs Chalkney’s house in Grosvenor Square, thanking his stars that his friend Roding would not be there to spoil sport. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death.
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