"I don't know how it is," he added in a low voice to Thames, as they were left alone, "but I've a strange foreboding of ill. I don’t think that the rest of the people here like us very well, do they, Arthur, so we’re obliged to be friends. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. "These writer chaps are queer birds. The blood will rest on your head. Take that box, and put it into the carriage yourself.
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