"Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. “I shall leave the flat to you and go to a hotel. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. Did you hear us through the archway, talking cookery?” They went up by the lift in silence. ” “I don’t believe it,” he answered hoarsely. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head.
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