It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. ‘Not from the nuns, no. "Weep on, reprobate," cried the carpenter, a little softened. Not fit to be dust on your boots. Presently her aunt sighed deeply and looked at the clock. The chair had extension arms over which a man might comfortably dangle his legs. “I suppose some one makes a bit on the food,” she said. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. “Of course he may merely have been telling her who we were, but I think it improbable.
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