Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. Late in July he finished the fourth story. “I wonder,” he said, “is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?” “Can you think of anything?” Anna answered. “I trust,” he said, “that you will recognize the justice of these conditions. Good night. That could signify nothing except that the doctor had a friend down there somewhere, on an island in one of those archipelagoes. Then he opened the study door and called “Mollie!” and returned to assume an attitude of authority on the hearthrug, before the blue flames and orange glow of the gas fire. Let us part in peace.
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