“MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. ” “So far,” she continued, eyeing hungrily the last morsel of roll which lay upon her plate, “my only chance of occupation has lain with a photographer who engaged me on the spot and insulted me in half an hour. ‘Keep your distance! You dare to tell me I cannot refuse?’ He glared at the girl. And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing.
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