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’ ‘Excellent,’ Gerald had approved. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. One mistress enough to ruin a man,—two, the devil. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. Marry, come up! I've been a great deal too charitable. “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly.
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