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"Well, gentlemen," rejoined Wood, mildly; "since Mr. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. Between his lectures—and primarily he was an itinerant lecturer—he manoeuvred in vain to acquire some facts regarding the girl, who she was, whence she had come; but always she countered with: "What is that?" Guileless she might be; simple, never.
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