Each arm of the blouse had the faintest of rings around the elbow, a stain that looked familiar. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. "I beg pardon," he said. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. "The Chevalier shall hear of this," whispered the woollen-draper. “In self-defence I had to,” she answered.
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