She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. He paused at the bamboo curtain of her room, which was in semi-darkness. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. It’s well hidden, miss. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. You will do as I say, or—’ ‘Hoy!’ called Trodger from down the hall. ‘You could have fetched me home.
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