He ran back to his car, glancing only once at the man in the car. ” He threw open the door of the sitting-room and switched on the electric light. I hate what I have to do to survive. ’ Speeding down the two flights of stairs, Gerald mentally thanked God that it was the practice of himself and Roding—in case of emergency, of which this was a prime example—to stable their horses at the posting inns all the way to London. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. 123 It didn’t take long. “Yes?” he said. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London.
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