At the second peal of the door-bell, Brother Soulsby sat up in bed. It was still pitch-dark, and the memory of the first ringing fluttered musically in his awakening consciousness as a part of some dream he had been having.
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"Who the deuce can that be?" he mused aloud, in querulous resentment at the interruption.
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"Put your head out of the window, and ask," suggested his wife, drowsily.
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Chapter 31
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