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Wood in the deepest mourning. "I think you're all bewitched," she cried. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. “Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph.
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