He seemed to possess infinite reserves of patience when she refused him or purposely tried to bait and anger him, but his patience only made him seem more sinister. Wild on his guard against an assassin. On Saturday he went to that there Mr Charvill’s house. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy. The terrific mental tension of the past few months —that had held his bodily nourishment in a kind of strangulation—became as a dream; and now his vitals responded rapidly to food and air. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. “Reuben, come here. I’m a female thing at bottom. She twanged the catgut under her fingers.
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