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Updated: May 26, 2025
Play began at table Number One on a passed make of no trumps by Sylvia, and at the other table on a doubled and redoubled heart make, which sent a delicate flush into Agatha's face, and drove the last vestige of lingering thoughtfulness from Quarrier's, leaving it a tense, pallid, and expressionless mask, out of which looked the velvet-fringed eyes of a woman.
Quarrier's velvet-fringed eyes began to narrow, but his calm voice remained unchanged: "We are merely wasting energy in this duel," he said. "Oh, no; I don't feel wasted." "We are also wasting opportunities," continued Quarrier slowly. "This whole matter is involving us in a tangle of litigation requiring our constant effort, constant attention." "I beg your pardon, Mr.
He rose steadily, walked to the table: "Listen to me, you funny little thing," he said. No answer. The childlike curve of the cheek was flushed; the velvet-fringed lids lay close. For a moment he listened to the quiet breathing, then touched her arm lightly. The girl stirred, lifted her head, straightened up, withdrawing her fingers from the wine-glass. "Everybody's gone home," he said.
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