Yours?" The stranger hesitated. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. Her mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearly-white teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing constantly about them. Charvill’s fury was burning out. If he could keep it up—style and calibre of imagination—within a year the name of Taber would become widely known. She simply refuses to see or hear from me again.
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