And a broken picture that was torn when I hit him with it. Mr. Maggot, who promptly interposed her cudgel. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. ‘Eh bien?’ She thrust again, from the same place. There was more to be told, and this was as good a time as any. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated. Things happen to women—proper women—and all they have to do is to take them well.
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