" "Wood's daughter, I suppose?" observed the other. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. Still—you must learn for yourself. .
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