He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. “The real reason why I am out of place here,” she said, “is because I like men. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. ‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you.
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