Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. She held out her hand frankly. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. It was an uproarious affair, for Rollo now knew that he had been grieviously betrayed: they were trying to kill him in a new way. Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. CHAPTER III.
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