On his appearance, Jack levelled a pistol at his head. ‘You have every right to be angry with me. Turning now, and running down the terrace. Stanley,’ I said. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion.
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