I must tell somebody—and you would understand. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. The clock struck half-past ten. Michelle sat on her bed, which emanated scents of powdered laundry detergent and Sweet Honesty perfume. Ruth could tell the doctor; she could bare many of her innermost thoughts to that kindly man; but there was an inexplicable reserve before this young man whom she still endued with the melancholy charm of Sydney Carton.
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