That day Gerald had brought her to this excessively careful house, where she had felt very much alone and very unlike herself. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. "You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland—short accounts, you know. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes.
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