Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. He awoke, strangely content. Do you like duck?” “Sure. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground.
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