"Show me your warrant!" said Wood, almost driven to his wit's-end; "perhaps it isn't regular?" "Ask him who he is?" suggested Thames. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. I’m too young 117 for this to sound right. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred.
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