She turned back into the hall. ‘By traitors I am surrounded!’ ‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk. He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly.
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