“Quite unusually cold for the time of year,” he said. How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll start to snubbing her. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. On the cords being removed, he made a desperate spring at Wild, bore him to the ground, clutched at his throat, and would, infallibly, have strangled him, if the keepers had not all thrown themselves upon him, and by main force torn him off.
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