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"I doubt that, I doubt that. Jaggard, like yourself, is an old campaigner, and no doubt an alert sleeper; that is," explained Arkel, "he would wake up at the least sound.",

"I don't know what to think," cried Jen, in desperation. "Dido or Mrs. Dallas, I don't know which, but one of them, must be guilty. I'll go over to The Wigwam at once.",

"Sometimes it hurts." Then a cyclone happened to me.,

Lastly Etwald. It is difficult to describe the indescribable. He was austere in face, like Dante, with hollow cheeks, and a pallid hue which told of midnight studies. If he had passions, they could not be discerned in his features. Eye and mouth and general expression were like a mask. What actually lay behind that mask no one ever knew, for it was never off. His slightly hollow chest, his lean and nervous hands, and a shock of rather long, curling hair, tossed from a high forehead, gave Etwald the air of a student. But there was something sinister and menacing in his regard. He looked dangerous and more than a trifle uncanny. Physically, mentally, morally he was an enigma to the bovine inhabitants of Deanminster and Hurstleigh.

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"To see me, Miss Dallas?",

"That's just what I'm thinking about, Tom," I said with a smile that was as sweet as I could make it, "and as she came with messages to me from one of my best old friends I think I ought to do something to make her have a good time. I was just planning a gorgeous dinner-party I want to have for her when you came so suddenly. Do you think we could arrange it for Tuesday evening?",

Elinor hesitated. "I don't know," she replied slowly, measuring her words. "I can't put my finger on it, but she doesn't seem the same to me as she did at first. She isn't jealous of my poor work, of course, but I can feel a something—a wall or barrier—that she raises up between us whenever my work is spoken of. I felt it when we talked about the subject of the prize designs, and I felt it today more clearly than ever. We can't be friends any more as we were, I'm afraid. Something has come between us. 'The little rift within the lute,'" she quoted sorrowfully.,

David and Maurice both being absent, the one in London, and the other at Deanminster, Major Jen was compelled to dine alone. This he disliked doing, so hurrying over his dinner with all speed, he betook himself to the smoking-room, with a book. Here he lighted a cigar, chose a comfortable chair near the open window, and attempted to read; but the somnolent influence of the evening was upon him, and before his cigar was half done the good major was sound asleep.