"Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. Abruptly he gripped her wrist. I'll talk to her in the morning, but she won't understand what I'm driving at. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. 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.
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