"Something worse, I fear," Wood replied. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. “If I sit here,” he said, standing up before her abruptly, “I shall have to shout. ’” She played “If I Were a Rich Man,” adding syrupy trills and flourishes at every phrase. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for herself. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. Or else I would have finished him.
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