"Poor Mrs. " "And all the time you loved her?"—appalled. “I will put the question,” Drummond said gravely. " "Yes. The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. But I want to know what you are doing. " "You have always spoken it?" "Yes; except for some native. By a sort of instinct.
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