" "Mr. . Never mind. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. “What do you mean?” Lucy asked. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. “Indeed,” she said, “I would not. “Are you looking for Mike? He’s working. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. A few more minutes, and she was safe.
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