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Kilpatrick, Florence A. (Florence Antoinette), 1888-

"Our Elizabeth A Humour Novel"

'I know it isn't the correct thing for
dinner, but you've only yourself to blame.'
Henry continued to stare at him. 'I was quite right. Your brain is
unhinged, William. When I last saw you, you appeared fairly
normal--and now I come in and discover you arrayed like the lilies of
the field and kissing my wife.'
William gave a cry like a wounded animal. 'Your indictment is only too
true. Henry, it is terrible. I can never even hope for your
forgiveness for such a heinous offence. The only reparation I can make
is to go forth from your house, shake from my feet the dust of your
hospitable roof----'
'That metaphor's wrong, William,' I interposed.
'--and pass out of your lives for ever.'
'What on earth are you talking about, old chap?' inquired Henry.
'Have I not betrayed the trust you always reposed in me?'
'I wouldn't put it as strong as that,' replied Henry, eyeing him up and
down, 'though you certainly have made a bit of a guy of yourself. Who
created those trousers?'
'I--I--was not referring to my change of apparel, Henry, but to that
most unfortunate aberration on my part, when I was impelled by some
strange uncontrollable impulse to bestow a labial salute on your wife.
Heaven only knows that I----'
'As for that, I expect she egged you on,' calmly rejoined that horrid
Henry. 'I know her. You did flirt with him, didn't you, Netta?'
Before I could reply William sprang to his feet and placed himself
before me.


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