All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of that before?’ ‘What are you talking of?’ ‘Never mind that now. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing.
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