He was—a millionaire. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. One mistress enough to ruin a man,—two, the devil.
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