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In the excitement under which he was obviously laboring, he did not observe the coldness of the granted permission. He waited with ill-concealed impatience until Norris had withdrawn, then he turned to her afresh. "Mrs. Witcherley!" he cried, "you see before you an outraged man!"
"Master," he murmured, hurriedly, "with your permission, I also would leave the Presence;" and with a perturbed gesture, he too bowed and passed out of the room. On a crisp, cold afternoon, one week after her interview with the Prophet, Enid Witcherley sat in the drawing-room of her London flat.
For twenty-three years Enid Witcherley had played with existence toying with it, enjoying it, as an epicure enjoys a rare wine or a choice morsel of food prepared for his appreciation.
People stopped one another with nervous, unstrung gesture and odd, disjointed sentences. As the last comer entered, she paused for a moment, uncertain and hesitating; but almost as she did so, a remarkable-looking and massively built man who was standing in the hall, disengaged himself from a group of people, and, coming directly towards her, took her hand. "Mrs. Witcherley!
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