Wood. Wood brought up. She could not realize what she saw. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. “Who wouldn’t be for you?” The train began to move. 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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