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It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. She nodded. "Well, gentlemen," rejoined Wood, mildly; "since Mr. You don’t understand. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. It’s the only clean way for us. Then her white teeth gleamed, and her excuse for remaining any longer before that little marble table was gone. We were to have breakfast there and return in the evening. She recovered herself, however, with amazing facility.
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