“I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. It is she that I must see. .
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