For a time he and Miss Klegg contradicted one another. The arm about her was steel hard, and she felt the weapon that was placed at her heart, which thumped uncomfortably in her chest. I did not even know where to write and thank you. The looming face was 71 over her own once again, and arms as strong as iron bars held her down. He had quite enough to see to and worry about in the City without their doing things. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him.
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