Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. There is Mr. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. Brendon. Pity you aren’t under my command. ‘I’m not going to arrest you, young Jack—yet. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning.
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