Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. Yes—as he would have liked. I change them in the morning at Cannon Street, and take my book as I come down. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before.
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