The effects of the heroin wore off slowly. The manager stared at the empty doorway for a space, shrugged, and returned to his ledgers. But he wrote on. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. You’re such a strange girl. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Chapter XVII THE CHANGE IN “ALCIDE” “By-the-bye,” his neighbour asked him languidly, “who is our hostess?” “Usually known, I believe, as Lady Ferringhall,” Ennison answered, “unless I have mixed up my engagement list and come to the wrong house. They shouted to her from the wings to come off. " "Robbed him!" screamed the widow. "Oh, lud! what's that?" exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. He beamed as she whispered to 22 him that she had seen a table so fine or tasted such wonders. The sunshine was brilliant, the air mild.
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