. " "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. "I guessed what was coming. See, it is on my cards—M. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. ” A little blond creature close at hand suddenly gave way to a fit of hysterical laughter, and caught up the end of it with a sob. He unhooked it from the front clasp. "More slang," he said. She despises me, I suppose. Well, whenever you say, I promise to do away with the mystery. "If you don't stop its squalling, I will. But I don't understand her; she's over my head. I'll go alone.
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