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Updated: June 26, 2025
"He has never married; he has been dead to the world for many years. His name, of course, is not Leslie Guest! If I dared tell you, you would understand I want him oh! I want him so much to have a few years of happiness." "What can we do, Lady Dennisford?" I asked earnestly. "Take me up to him. Leave me with him alone." I opened the door. "At once!" I said. He was still writing.
His eyes were fixed upon vacancy, his lips were slightly curled in a meditative smile. There was a distinct change in his appearance. His expression was more peaceful, the slight restlessness had disappeared from his manner. But he had never looked to me more like a dying man. "Lady Dennisford sent me out," I remarked, "She has ordered a pony-cart to take us home." He nodded.
"He almost lost his temper at the bare suggestion," Lady Dennisford answered. "The slight hitch in the Morocco negotiations, he says, is simply owing to a misunderstanding, which will be cleared up in a day or two." "Now I can understand," I said, "why, on the Continent, they always speak of British diplomacy with their tongues in their cheeks.
I watched him with curiosity. Finally I pointed him out to Lady Dennisford. "Do you see this man coming up to the house?" I said "a sleek, middle-aged man smoking a cigar?" "I see him," she answered. "What do you think he looks like?" I asked. "A prosperous tradesman," she answered. "A friend of your bailiff's, perhaps." "He calls himself Mr.
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