When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table. “Eight, Cavendish Square. I don’t think any surroundings could throw a shadow on you. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. They had scrubbed and dusted, torn down and hung up until noon. Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book.
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