“I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. “An annuity—a sum of money paid to you yearly or quarterly through my solicitors, and which you can consider as a gift from your sister. Only a book detective could dope this out. If he stayed in the basement apartment as was his usual habit, she would have no problem. But at the same time, I must say plainly that I think your presence here just now would be a great misfortune. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. I want to love him. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. It is a plain case of alcoholic stupor. Ah! I shall never forget the figure Jack cut on that occasion. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. “They have no plans for us. One side of the face was white with foamy lather and the other ruddy-cheeked and blue-jawed.
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