“What’s that for?” He said. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. “You’ve interested me enormously. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. “He naturally does not wish for connexions which are—I do not wish to hurt you feelings, Anna, but I must say it—not altogether desirable. Spit of your mother.
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