It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Manning? I suppose there’s a sort of place like a ticket-office. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. I make no apology for not being with you now. " "Oh, Ruth couldn't put it on paper, to be sure; but there was no reason to hide the source.
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