‘Tell me what you know of Miss Charvill?’ he ordered severely. The chair was torture. " "Wrong? What the devil could be wrong?" McClintock had demanded, irascibly. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners.
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