By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. But it was her proof. ” “I had to,” she repeated. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. “I knew Mr.
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