I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that. He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. I might have told you the truth. She found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. 1 through 1.
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