‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. I’ve told them all that was necessary, but I— wanted to ask your pardon—for having made myself a nuisance to you, and for breaking into your rooms—and to thank you—the doctor says you bound up my wound—or I should have bled to death. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral.
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