She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again. He's more like a lord than—" As she spoke, steps were heard approaching; the door was thrown open, and a young man marched boldly into the room. He shivered and looked behind as he stepped into his hansom. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. I’m a Socialist, Miss Stanley.
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