"Do not despair, my sweet soul," said Wood, in a soothing tone. This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55. A door slammed. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice.
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