Which caused her to look at him again, and
to think of him frequently; and at last to want him for her own--after a
little while. And he had appeared not averse to the wanting--after a
little while. Now, just as he was about to succumb, he was suddenly
whisked away by another woman--that woman simply a later edition of
herself: the same figure, the same poise, the same methods, the same
allurements; but younger in years, fresher, and, she admitted it to
herself, less acquainted with the ways of men. And now she had lost
him; and never would she be able to get him back. Another woman had
filched him from her--filched him forever from her, she knew.
Therefore she hated Mrs. Clephane with a glowing hate.
"Have you seen the--_man_?" Marston asked, when her attention came back
to him.
She nodded. "I've had a communication from him."
"Anything doing?"
"Not yet. He will duly apprise me. Meanwhile we, or rather I, am to
remain quiet and wait expectantly."
"He thinks you are alone?"
"Of course. He would be off like a colt if he thought that I had a corps
of assistants."
"The longer the delay the more chance France has to repeat the letter by
cable," Marston remarked.
"Certainly--but I shan't be fool enough to tell him so, or anything as
to the letter.
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