‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below. Then he looked across at Mrs Sindlesham. It slipped out—as did that “she”. ‘Come, cry a truce. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love.
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