"A hell of a muddle! But all the talk in the world can't undo it. You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw’s study of me, and sent it to Cariolus. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. "I have not trusted you. But the love of life prevailed over his fears. Scarcely any one noticed the full measure of her consternation. ‘Do not be foolish.
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