Manning called. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. But she no longer felt Jacomo’s age, even if she looked it. There was nothing to be learned from her face.
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