"I say we, because Miss Rachel and I have struck up a match. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. Sebastian administered bitter tonics to her, fluids she could not taste with her swollen tongue. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind. He had come to Anna’s rooms from a dinner party, and he was in evening dress. " There was a brief, breathless pause. “Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?” with a low bow. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch.
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