If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white.
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