I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. . I felt suddenly I understood you—as an intelligent person. But, as you perceive, I brought it away with me.
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