Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. She looked in the glass over and over as she checked for lint and makeup streaks. “Those were good. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. "Mrs. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. I’m not Gerald, remember.
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