“You must not think of me as one. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. ” He said happily. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants.
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