In a sense it alters nothing. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. She had seen a man’s head steal out for a moment and draw the curtains a little closer. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription.
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