It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. She would just have to show up and hope for the best. Their flitting hands were always touching. But in his presence a wall of diffidence and timidity encompassed her. “Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph. It was so easy to forget the imminent threats of being discovered during times of peace. “I wonder,” he said, “is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?” “Can you think of anything?” Anna answered.
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