She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. “If I thought for a moment that there was any chance of a relapse, I should stop here and tell him the truth even now. ‘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. “I never saw Courtlaw with her—never heard her speak of him. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked.
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