And, thrusting a piece of iron into his mouth, he forced him out of the room. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. “Quite an unimportant one,” he assured her. I’m glad the old sore is assuaged.
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