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about,’ she said.
’No, by God!’ he mused. ‘There aren’t! Well, my dear, to
look at you, he was a lucky man. Surely he wouldn’t make
trouble for you?’
’Oh no! He leaves me my own mistress entirely.’
’Quite! Quite! A genuine man would.’
Sir Malcolm was pleased. Connie was his favourite
daughter, he had always liked the female in her. Not so
much of her mother in her as in Hilda. And he had always
disliked Clifford. So he was pleased, and very tender with
his daughter, as if the unborn child were his child.
He drove with her to Hartland’s hotel, and saw her in-
stalled: then went round to his club. She had refused his
company for the evening.
She found a letter from Mellors.
I won’t come round to your hotel, but I’ll wait for you
outside the Golden Cock in Adam Street at seven.
There he stood, tall and slender, and so different, in a for-
mal suit of thin dark cloth. He had a natural distinction, but
he had not the cut-to-pattern look of her class. Yet, she saw
at once, he could go anywhere. He had a native breeding
which was really much nicer than the cut-to-pattern class
thing.
’Ah, there you are! How well you look!’
’Yes! But not you.’
She looked in his face anxiously. It was thin, and the
cheekbones showed. But his eyes smiled at her, and she
felt at home with him. There it was: suddenly, the tension
of keeping up her appearances fell from her. Something

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