Enough's as good as a feast of the dainties you provide. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly.
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