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Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips), 1866-1946

"The Profiteers"

Perhaps
my nerves are going. So I came to you. Did I do wrong?"
"The wrong would be if ever you left me," he declared passionately.
She patted his hand. "Dear friend!"
"The room I will arrange for in a minute or two," he promised. "That is
quite easy. But to-morrow--what then?"
"I shall telephone home," she replied. "If that woman is still in the
house, I shall go down into the country, and from there I shall write my
lawyers and apply for a separation."
"So those are your plans," he remarked calmly.
"Yes. Can you suggest anything better?"
"I can suggest something a thousand times better."
She hesitated for a moment. Perhaps she was conscious of a certain
alteration in his deportment, the ring of his last words, the slight but
unusual air of emotional fervour with which he seemed somehow to have
become endowed. A woman of curiously strong virginal instincts, she
realised, perhaps for the first time, the approach of a great change in
Wingate's attitude towards her. Yet she could not keep from her lips the
words which must bring his avowal.
"What do you mean?" she faltered.
"That you end it all," he advised firmly, "that you take your courage in
both hands, that you do not return to your husband at all."
"Not return," she repeated, her eyes held by his.
"That you come to me," he went on, bending over the side of her chair.


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