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“You shall,” she said. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. Never mind. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. “I’ll try to stop by. “What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me?—and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?” Anna shook her head.
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