After all, Hilary must be near returned by now. Couldn’t make head nor tail of that note of yours. It was eleven o'clock. Hang the wench! Roding was right. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. He could not tell whether she was English or American. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within.
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