A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. “But about last night. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. ” It was a tiny little room, daintily furnished, individual in its quaint colouring, and the masses of perfumed flowers set in strange and unexpected places. Why? What is she to you?” “I was there by accident,” Ennison answered. “I do mean that,” she declared. Only a few weeks ago there was a bloody battle on the bridge there between the soldiery and the local police. .
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