"Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. Everett’s gaze dropped to the papers in his hand. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. She spoke slowly. I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own.
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