’ ‘Can’t say as I’m sorry to hear you say that, missie,’ confessed the sergeant, on a relieved note, as he locked the front door of the mansion and pocketed the key. “You love some one else?” he repeated. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. Go off and live together—until we can marry. My reception at West Kensington you know of. It was Doctor Ralph, formerly the partner of Doctor Stickell in the Avenue, and now with a thriving practice of his own in Wamblesmith. It is no good arguing about a thing like that.
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