As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. “I was frightened then,” she declared. ” “Then he—and Paris—lied,” Ennison answered. But—” The tired woman raised her eyebrows in mild protest. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws.
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