She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. “It was my sister Anna. \"What did you do?\" Mike asked. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. This was irregular. And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket. Call her Miss Pellissier, eh? I tell you she’s my wife, and I’ve got the certificate in my pocket.
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