“So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. "Ah!" exclaimed Wild, looking angrily towards his supposed attendant. “It is not, of course, a pleasant subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture to suggest to you that your sister’s—er—indiscretions—have reached a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. ’ Miss Froxfield regarded him in some interest. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. They leave them out of novels—these incompatibilities. They were sharp and dripping with black blood.
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