’ ‘Damnation!’ ‘What the devil ails you?’ demanded his friend, striding forward. , Ltd. Wood. ‘I fear you mistake, Emile. Wood in the deepest mourning. His mother smiled in return, an act that brightened her thin face. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering.
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