Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. “Miss Ellicot!” Brendon echoed. Mounting the door he had last opened, he placed his hands on the wall above, and quickly drew himself up. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. The will to live had returned. Only a book detective could dope this out. “I expected to stay with a relation, but I found that their arrangements did not allow of it.
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