For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. My wife—killed me. " "Not in the least, Sir," replied Tom, in a drowsy tone, and with a look seeming to imply that he was too much accustomed to odd noises at night to heed them.
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