One of the reasons why I left Paris and came to London was because there was a man there who wanted me to marry him. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. They have rescued the child. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. The highest form of knowledge was magic: the priesthood. “Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked. “I can’t keep away from you. He meant to take her out of this room, perhaps even out of the house. If I had known that you had meant to talk like this I wouldn’t have come here. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory.
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