Think better of it. ’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace. . “Why did you lie to that man?” he asked fiercely. . . It was that somebody had cheated you. He walked with bent head. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. There were no mourners.
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