She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. And now for the fawney— the ring I mean. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. That had taken her by surprise, and her tired wits had failed her. The Wastrel did not relish this. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two.
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