CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. His age was not far from fifty. "Lor' ha' mussy, Sir!—how you do talk," said the woman; "this is no robber, I'm sure. I’ve never had these crying fits before. When is the game?\" She did her best to overhaul her own appearance for 63 the greater part of an hour, blotting lips, fluffing the brush over her face. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. She may afford us some necessary information. This is no place for me. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. “I am under police surveillance,” she said. " "I'll not go," answered the other. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them.
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