” She looked around the apartment again. Ennison’s acquaintance. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. “You’ve got to take the decent reasonable way. It's hereditary, like de jigt, vat you call it—gout —haw! haw!" "If the child is destined to the gibbet, Van Galgebrok," replied the Master, joining in the laugh, "it'll never be choked by a footman's cravat, that's certain; but, in regard to going back empty-handed," continued he, altering his tone, and assuming a dignified air, "it's quite out of the question. His car, a black Alfa Romeo, waited at the end of the subdivision. From the window he saw The Tigress faring toward Copeley's! Then somebody was coming? Some political high muckamuck, probably. It was just then that she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. The less said, therefore, on this point the better; because, as nothing is to be gained by it, it would only be trouble thrown away. .
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