‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. " "Miscreants!" cried Sheppard, almost driven frantic by the violence of his emotions; "you're all in league with him. But this modern miasma—” Mr. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. His lips were tight drawn.
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