“Often,” he repeated, a little heavily. CHAPTER XXVII. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. . . Presently. “Allow me.
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