She has already forgotten it. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. The contest, however, though desperate, was brief. Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. And then they disgorged. Her head rose. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. Wood entered the room, followed by Thames.
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