G. Wood heard the cry. Had he been listening inside? ‘What is amiss?’ ‘That Frenchie, sir. I would like to have to tell it so. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. He hated the taste of it. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sisters.
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