Voilà tout. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. Wood, with a look meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust. Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. “I didn’t blow up the house. The applause was uproarious at the end of the concert.
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