" CHAPTER XIX. Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. “Don’t!” she begged. May we not repeat them once, at any rate, in London? “Ever yours, “NIGEL ENNISON. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. “Well?” she said. I will not trust you.
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