The idea of your being a failure would never have occurred to me. A note of belligerency had crept into his tone. ‘Did she call you that?’ asked Lucilla, amused. Spurling, who sat on the right of the table. Evidently her foresight has saved me a funeral. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands.
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