The coach was slowing down, and he realised that they had arrived in Golden Square. ‘You don’t mean to say she’s here?’ ‘Was,’ Gerald corrected. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. Strange, demure-looking young woman, with wonderful complexion and eyes, and a style about her, too. What he wanted desperately was to be alone. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. He will be some time in this comatose state.
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