But he has never been near her—never. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. By a sort of instinct. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her. A detective will be here in a few moments to make inquiries into this affair. But you belong to me—and I want you.
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