Wood, who appeared to be collecting her energies for a terrible explosion, "in the hope that they may prove acceptable. ” She glanced shyly at the mirror above her dressing-table, and then about her at the furniture, as though it might penetrate to the thoughts that peeped in her mind. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy.
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