"Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. In a second the glass lay shattered upon the carpet. Without whisky," went on McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. C below.
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