“—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. ‘Yes, only that this consolation he had found before he married my mother. ” “A—marriage certificate!” Annabel gasped. “How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see. But he afterwards acted upon the suggestion. The Disguise. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away.
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