"Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. ” She smiled, sure of herself beyond any pretending, into his troubled eyes.
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