"What in the world is it?" he asked. “Afterwards,” she said, “I should be perfectly content to have everything done for me. "Ah! who have we here?" exclaimed Griffin. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. I don't ask you to supply my place—for that is, perhaps, impossible. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. Montague Hill was taken for the millionaire once or twice, and I suppose it flattered his vanity.
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