“I have not the least idea who he is. Plote was sleeping or deaf. And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt! One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. The door opened, and a slightly overweight pretty blonde, an older, wiser version of Michelle, came into view. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. ” “Why on earth—? A man ought to be labelled. Master, your humble servant. V. ” The conversation hung.
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