” Sydney Courtlaw followed his timid knock. " "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. " "Heaven have compassion on you, Rowland!" murmured his sister, crossing her hands and looking upwards; "you have none on me. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. It was necessary to think, and think quickly.
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