"Good gracious! so I do," exclaimed his amiable consort. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. Suddenly a half stifled exclamation broke from Anna’s lips. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. Kneebone. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis.
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