” “You have not seen the evening paper?” “No. Answering him was agonizing. He can't be far off. His brain reeled. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. A few minutes later Sir John left the room. He did not particularly care. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. And, turning at the touch, he perceived Sheppard's glance fixed meaningly upon him. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. His grip twisted her wrist. " "This way, sir.
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