"I will not submit to be thus interrogated," said Winifred, angrily. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. They did not want her. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye. “Please stay,” she said briefly. It is not at all what I expected either. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands.
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