’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. She could think of nothing more to say. "Lady Trafford would not have thus condemned me!" cried Thames. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say.
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