It was Annabel who caught at the paper. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. “Thank you, Martin,” she replied graciously. Maybe it’s his loss. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. It will do its best to overlook things—” “If we let it, poor dear.
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