" "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. “I saw you in a sort of sloping, slippery place, holding on by your hands and slipping. The ring's yours, and you're mine. For a time I must do journalism and work hard.
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