From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. “Not possible. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. Lucy blushed from toes to forehead, feeling her pace accelerate. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. They would arrest him for the French spy they had thought her at first.
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