Be warned by your father's fate. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. “I thought I saw her in town to-day,” he said. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. “Can you spare me a moment?” he asked.
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