’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice. To Spurlock's observing eye, Enschede's wrinkles multiplied and the folds in his clothes. She would not forgive me. I'm glad of it, I'm sure; for it's all owing to him his poor mother's here. ‘I might have killed you,’ she snapped, ‘if only you did not say anything. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. ‘You must think me a fool, mademoiselle. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere.
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