‘Except Captain Roding,’ agreed the old lady, nodding at the butler. He paused at the bamboo curtain of her room, which was in semi-darkness. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. Mother and Son XI. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. She became aware that at regular intervals a light flashed upon her face and a bodiless eye regarded her, and this, as the night wore on, became a torment. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter.
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