It was the grand nursery of vice. “Nevertheless,” Hill said doggedly, “I am here to speak to you alone. ‘And I suppose I shall be obliged to endure another nonsensical tale about your husband. But they did what they could for her. “Someone must have found it and taken good care of it. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. "Aw, piffle!" he said, half aloud and rather disgustedly, as he stepped out into the sunshine.
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