His voice now had lost its ironies. He sent me flowers. This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before. “I’m inclined to think, Stanley, myself that as a matter of fact it was the expurgated Romeo and Juliet did the mischief. The gong will go at seven-thirty. What about them?” He called a hansom. Stanley. Since Mary predeceased Jarvis, Nicholas could scarcely argue himself to be my brother’s next of kin.
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