The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. “Where is my beautiful wife?” He bellowed from the downstairs. I keep it for my own drinking," he added in a lower tone. She did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. In his youth he must have been a remarkably handsome man, for he is still handsome. Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire.
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