" "Wrong? What the devil could be wrong?" McClintock had demanded, irascibly. A pane of glass was shivered by each stone. There was a pint of champagne and a quart of mineral water (both taboo) at his elbow. ‘This idiotic female—’ ‘This imbecile has made me—’ ‘—made me lose my temper, and I—’ ‘—cut him with my dagger, and he is—’ ‘—damn near slit her throat!’ ‘—bleeding like a pig!’ ‘Whoa, whoa!’ stormed the captain, starting forward. The impassivity of her features changed at last. He went on with intense urgency. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know.
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