“Queer letters he writes,” she said. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. A nod was exchanged. “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon.
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