Your purpose is done. Unless he has killed someone. What a mercy that the blow aimed at her by the ruffian, Wild, though it brought her to the brink of the grave, should have restored her to reason! Ah! she stirs. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. ‘By traitors I am surrounded!’ ‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk. Never! Perhaps some day, quite soon, she might regret that breakfast-room. He smiled complacently.
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