But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. Miss Charvill. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. He glanced at his watch. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice. She found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face. Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands.
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