Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. " "It is strange," replied Winifred, artlessly. “What a gloomy person you are!” she murmured. " "But, mother, mayn't I sit up to see whether Thames returns?" implored Winifred. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly.
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