Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy. Wood's displeasure; and he was the more readily induced to do this, as the conversation began to turn upon his own affairs. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. Happy to do anything in my power. ‘I’ll get the key,’ said Roding, turning abruptly. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go.
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