Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. Meantime, as the doctor was splitting his breakfast orange, he heard a commotion in his office, two rooms removed: volleys of pidgin English, one voice in protest, the other dominant. He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her.
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