‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. Good night. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. Her mouth lolled open and drool seeped down one corner.
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