Meantime, as the doctor was splitting his breakfast orange, he heard a commotion in his office, two rooms removed: volleys of pidgin English, one voice in protest, the other dominant. Brendon and Courtlaw who had been watching for her, met her at the door. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key.
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