‘Truth is, it’s Gerald who’s put me in the devil’s own temper, ma’am. She was practically destitute of jewellery. Few men could have done as much. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. He jumps the words out of your mouth; he takes hold of what you have to say before you have had time to express it properly. When she spoke, her lips twitched. Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow. But send me word.
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