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He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. I must have something in hand. It’s a damned hard thing to do. A farthing candle, stuck in a bottle neck, shed its feeble light upon the table, which, owing to the provident kindness of Mr. We have to hang about in the interval. It is to take place to-night. Laughed at me, then. “Did I do something wrong?” He asked. ‘There is no question of a dispute.
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