“It’s best,” he said, “to make it a good round sum. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. “It was not necessary,” Sir John answered stiffly. ” The doors at the other end of the hall opened. From all angles he was at a disadvantage—in weight, skill, endurance. To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. The colouring was green and white, with softly shaded electric lights, an alcove bedstead, which was a miracle of daintiness, white furniture, and a long low dressing-table littered all over with a multitude of daintily fashioned toilet appliances. Sir John once more looked around him. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. "I suppose he'll be on his feet any day now.
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