But I have done you good, all the same. Don't contradict me; you don't
know yet; and it 's too late for us to argue about it. You will tell me
to-morrow.'"
CHAPTER XXX
Some three evenings after he received this last report of the progress
of affairs in Paris, Bernard, upon whom the burden of exile sat none the
more lightly as the days went on, turned out of the Strand into one of
the theatres. He had been gloomily pushing his way through the various
London densities--the November fog, the nocturnal darkness, the jostling
crowd. He was too restless to do anything but walk, and he had been
saying to himself, for the thousandth time, that if he had been guilty
of a misdemeanor in succumbing to the attractions of the admirable girl
who showed to such advantage in letters of twelve pages, his fault was
richly expiated by these days of impatience and bereavement. He gave
little heed to the play; his thoughts were elsewhere, and, while they
rambled, his eyes wandered round the house. Suddenly, on the other
side of it, he beheld Captain Lovelock, seated squarely in his
orchestra-stall, but, if Bernard was not mistaken, paying as little
attention to the stage as he himself had done.
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