Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. "One of us has got to die," he panted. Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed to the window with a torch. Fortescue’s steps, and encountered him with an air of artless surprise. At the threshold of the study he bade her good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips. In a very definite sense we are in the wrong —hopelessly in the wrong.
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