When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. What had happened to it? She had broken it, certainly. And afterwards! Sir John drew his cigar from his lips, and looked upwards where the white-lights flashed strangely amongst the deep cool green of the lime-trees.
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