Wood's reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the room by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. There was a photo of her that looked exactly like you. Now there is none.
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