‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. ‘You know about that?’ ‘It was the only possible deduction. “What a little brick!” he murmured. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. No, you don’t!” Ennison had moved stealthily a little nearer to him, and looked suddenly into the dark muzzle of the revolver.
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