He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault. It was the first—and the last! At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr. “Well?” she said.
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