The worst was over now. There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, you know. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. They flash to and fro, they thrill us with expectancy. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ warned Gerald, in the voice generally reserved for his men.
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