He was a stranger. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Some one was standing beside him. But, like all your overbearing sex, you must have your own way. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. "There's a young woman. The pearls were really yours?" "They were left to me by my mother. “Well, I don’t want you to talk to him,” he said, very firmly. Her first orders were to summon the rest of her servants to make immediate preparations for her departure for Lancashire.
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