Wood. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. Oh, cuss it!” “Eh?” “He said I would. You may have something to conceal, you may not. “All right?” asked the man with the light eyelashes, suddenly appearing in the doorway. “I don’t think she will,” she said.
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