Wood, regarding her husband with a glance of vindictive triumph. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. Her tone was icy. ‘To me, quickly!’ There was a brief hush, and then the shouts resumed and several pairs of feet clattered towards her from, as it seemed, several directions. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt.
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