“Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. “Oh, you know,” she said. " "No," replied Sir Rowland, who appeared completely prostrated. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage’s orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol.
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