Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. She had killed him. ” “Well, why not?” Lady Lescelles asked, smiling. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanley to the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended as though such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchants were a matter of course.
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