In the meantime Mr. Gammon was content to have
found a place where he could talk with Polly, sheltered from the
January night, at small expense. He sipped thoughtfully from a
tumbler of rich Scotch; he glanced cautiously at his companion, who
seemed very much under the influence of the hour. Polly, in fact,
had hardly spoken. Her winter costume could not compare in freshness
and splendour with that which had soothed her soul through the
bygone sunny season; to tell the truth, she was all but shabby. But
Gammon had no eye for this. He was trying to read Polly's thoughts,
and wondering how she could take what he had made up his mind to
tell her.
" I saw your aunt yesterday."
"You did?"
"Yes, I did. She was telling me about a letter she had from you some
time ago--the last letter you wrote her."
Their eyes met. Miss Sparkes was defiant--on her guard, but not
wholly courageous; Gammon twinkled a mocking smile, and held himself
ready for whatever might come.
"She shows you people's letters, does she?" said Polly with a sneer.
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