“Hainault, Celeste’s friend. ’ ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips. ’ ‘Yes, it’s all my fault,’ he agreed soothingly, ‘and you may rail at me presently as much as you please. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. But I see now. ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword. Filled as he was with conflicting emotions, any stretch of silence would be dangerous.
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