He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. An influence of this description appeared to be exerted on the present occasion. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. His eyes were narrow with desire like a panther’s as he grinned at seeing her visibly satisfied. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony.
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