Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. ‘I don’t want him having an apoplexy in this house. He sent me home. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. He lost control of the machine. I have gone without dinner for three nights, and—come in. Why did he imagine she was making this journey to England? She feigned interest. Two persons possessing a more comfortable stock of assurance could not be readily found. Never. That's the way she strikes me. A sense of loss was amongst us.
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