"Winifred Wood will never marry, unless the grave can give up its dead. The crowner's 'quest sat on her yesterday—and if she hadn't been proved out of her mind, she would have been buried at four lane-ends. She pulled herself together and put her eye to the eye-piece. Away in London even now Capes was packing and preparing; Capes, the magic man whose touch turned one to trembling fire. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. "May I beg to know whom I've the pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name.
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