His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. ‘What started you off, you madman,’ Roding told him frankly, as he set about tying his handkerchief around the wound, ‘was being born at all. She returned home to the Beck house soaked and soggy. Her little white hand stole across the table. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. The lady had disappeared. A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque.
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