“He was a friend of your sister’s, was he not?” “I never heard her mention his name,” she answered. It isn’t. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. Sorrows and danger and disappointment she had known. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release.
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