“Well, I don’t think you told him as much as that, did you?” Lady Lescelles asked. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn’t it—wasn’t it rather in some respects—rather a lark? It’s one of my regrets for my lost youth. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. Somebody to whom she would be necessary, who for days would have to depend upon her for the needs of life. He might be unfortunate, but he would scarcely be a fool.
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