Part 2 The next morning was as dark and foggy as if it was mid-November instead of early March. For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. "Enough!" cried Jonathan, eagerly pocketing the memorandum. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. His relation of the murder of Sir Rowland petrified even his fierce auditors. Impressionable, lonely, a deal beyond his analytical reach, the girl might let her sympathies go beyond those of the nurse. .
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