“That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily. Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. She nodded. He was scarcely concealed when he heard the horsemen, who perceived they had overshot their mark, ride back. And then if some day Capes wanted her—saw fit to alter his views upon friendship.
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