But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. "Leave him to me," he said. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. "This is not the way to obtain it," said Winifred, endeavouring to reach the door. In fact, I order you to do so.
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