And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done. She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No. And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. “I suppose, Vee, you don’t see much of those Widgetts now?” “I go in and talk to Constance sometimes. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. " "Hum!" "Have you any reason to suppose he survived the accident?" inquired Thames eagerly. Hilary could not have suggested such a thing. You don’t deserve it, but he does. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought.
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