“Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. Purney's hand-writing," said Jack, advancing, "and can at once decide whether this is a forgery or not. Well, I've had to be. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. Shari was snoring soundly. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. If they hadn't sent for me, you'd have pegged out before morning.
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