Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. . There were no evidences of any struggle, no overturned chairs or disarranged furniture. The decision had been sound. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. Of course Nicholas was bound to give her a French name. Anticipating this, Wild avoided the shot by suddenly, ducking his head. ‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me. . I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. . . You tell me he didn't like the stuff.
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