Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. "But you mustn't indulge these gloomy thoughts. ” Then he went on to say: “Well, you’ve had your little adventure, and I hope now you’ve had enough of it. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. The primitive superstition of his Puritan forbears was his; and before this the buckler of his education disintegrated.
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