" "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. I’ll have it out with him. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. .
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