The house was eerily silent, which alerted her to the idea that someone might be listening. Where was the expected message from this captain, who had promised to send her word at the instant Gerald returned to town. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. Charcoal. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue.
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