I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his fall. A cold shiver came over her. “I am developing ailments,” she said, meeting his questioning eyes. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. “The very question shows your ignorance,” he declared. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it.
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