’ A twinkle crept into Mrs Sindlesham’s eye. The place for reading. There was—a service. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. She was unusually pale, and her eyes were brilliant. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper.
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