The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. Charley Pevenill was our host. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. “Couldn’t we three go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyses me. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. I don’t care what divides us. But when she turned her thoughts to Morningside Park she perceived the tangled skein of life was now to be further complicated by his romantic importunity. He came to the door and as he opened it a crack, she pushed herself inside urgently. He felt he had raised a storm which it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to allay. ” “The Bubonic Plague?” He asked.
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