"I must tell you," she was saying. I can't concentrate on my work. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. When is the game?\" She did her best to overhaul her own appearance for 63 the greater part of an hour, blotting lips, fluffing the brush over her face. "I release you from your promise. Stanley had never thought out. She was like an angel with one wing. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window.
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