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Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful. And if I cared to have him come every day, why shouldn’t he? I find him very amusing and very useful as well. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes.
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