"Going to befuddle himself between now and dinner," was the comment of Prudence. He tore his gaze away, aware of the quickening of his heartbeat. Maggot. The Night-Cellar. He turned, expecting to see his wife. There was no way to warn her of his presence without startling her. “Bohemianism is the least understood word ever coined. ‘I don’t want him having an apoplexy in this house. He tries hard to conceal it, but he cannot. "Good gracious! so I do," exclaimed his amiable consort.
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