Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. In concealing himself behind the timber, Mr. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night. See, it is on my cards—M. He will not come.
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