This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. ’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it. I don't ask you to supply my place—for that is, perhaps, impossible. " "Accident or not," rejoined Sheppard; "you're no longer pall of mine. Only I wish—I wish to-day I was a thousand times, ten thousand times more beautiful.
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