A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. "I say," retorted Edgeworth Bess, with a very unfeminine imprecation, "I shan't stand any more of that nonsense. He was—a millionaire. I hope you won’t think less of me, you’ve treated me so well.
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