When they made love, he seemed to shift into the realm of possessiveness. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. Mrs. It was eleven o'clock. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. " "Why, my love," rejoined her husband, "appearances, you must allow, were a little against you. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. Only Gwen left a letter on the pincushion. The poor fellow's half smothered.
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