One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. Sure, I lose one occasionally—if he stays in New York. I desire, Sir, you'll recollect yourself. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. He just walked in a few minutes ago. Only a book detective could dope this out.
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