She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. Her shoulders began to ache. What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. It would not burden him with any obligation. “Yes. "Won't you be persuaded, Joan?" he added, making a similar offer to Mrs. He smothered a laugh.
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