” “You are not yourself to-night, Courtlaw,” Ennison said. Now what I want you to feel is this. Michelle walked towards the sloping Victorian stairs. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. And nearly all these things were fearfully ill-paid.
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