"These writer chaps are queer birds. ‘Do you need an excuse?’ ‘Oh, you know what doctors are. Why, honestly enouch. " "Yes, there was one," observed Ireton. ” She looked up at him quickly. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. By the side of her plate was a small key.
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