My wife—killed me. She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. I could make away with him at once, as you are about to make away with your nephew, Sir Rowland,—but that wouldn't serve my turn.
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