‘What started you off, you madman,’ Roding told him frankly, as he set about tying his handkerchief around the wound, ‘was being born at all. It must be my fault that you have not learnt that your husband is the man to come to—at such a time as this. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. The Iron Bar.
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