He sat before a desk littered all over with papers and official looking documents. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. “This,” he said, and then: “No! Is this sweeter? Very well. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. Plote was sleeping or deaf. A few bricks, dislodged probably by his last descent, came clattering down the chimney, and as it was perfectly dark, gave him the notion that some one was endeavouring to force an entrance into the room.
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