“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. In vain Wood protested his innocence. “We’re in for it. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. Thames did not attempt to offer him any consolation, for he was almost as much dejected. God is a jealous God, and He turned upon me relentlessly.
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