I really am enjoying it. Who’s for a rubber of whist?” Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening. The pistol, it was not loaded. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. “I might go home, I don’t know. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said.
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