A note of belligerency had crept into his tone. "Fold it … under the pillow. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. ” A dull flush burned upon his cheeks. The world is known to you. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. " "I don't require it," returned Sheppard.
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