It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. A sinister thought edged in. ‘It’s my belief she is a nun. ‘Did you sigh and flutter your eyelashes?’ ‘Certainly I did. They will be safe.
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