Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. Mr. “I’ve gotta go. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. Wood, regarding her husband with a glance of vindictive triumph. “No, you didn’t. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. “To tell you the truth, I am a little dull. " [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Corporation. .
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