“She is marvellously clever,” he said. “May I be allowed to say,” he declared, “that I came here with the same intention. And it’s no good pretending there is one when there isn’t. Wood heard the cry. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber.
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