shouldn’t be friends. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. “Where am I?” he muttered. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign.
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