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He was there concealed, waiting her return. And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. The day is already half over. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. Sorry to be so nosy. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. He had been gone entirely one day, for yesterday afternoon he had departed from Remenham House, and she had waited with patience like a saint, and now it was again the afternoon. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. And, yet, I don't know. " He summoned another "boy" and rumbled some Cantonese.
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