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MacGrath, Harold, 1871-1932

"The Voice in the Fog"

)
"I am very fond of the sea," remarked Lord Monckton. "I have seen some
odd parts of it. Every man has his Odyssey, his Aeneid."
Aeneid. It seemed to Kitty that her body had turned that instant into
marble as cold as that under her palms.
The coal of the man's cigar glowed intermittently. She could see
nothing else.
Aeneid--Enid.


CHAPTER XVI
Thomas slammed the ball with a force which carried it far over the wire
backstop.
"You must not drive them so hard, Mr. Webb; at least, not up. Drive
them down. Try it again."
Tennis looked so easy from the sidelines that Thomas believed all he
had to do was to hit the ball whenever he saw it within reach; but
after a few experiments he accepted the fact that every game required a
certain talent, quite as distinct as that needed to sell green neckties
(old stock) when the prevailing fashion was polka-dot blue. How he
loathed Thomas Webb. How he loathed the impulse which had catapulted
him into this mad whirligig! Why had not fate left him in peace; if
not satisfied with his lot, at least resigned? And now must come this
confrontation, the inevitable! No poor rat in a trap could have felt
more harassed.


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