"Mr. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. She had exposed the real story behind Peters tragedy, that dark, handsome Chuck had killed himself by leaving the car running in the garage, not from a “heart attack” as 111 claimed the party line. “I can’t endure it,” she said. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. " Sir Rowland looked at her for a moment, as if he meditated some terrible reply. But I’d have done it without, though it weren’t my place.
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