Sir John stood upon the threshold. “My wife refused absolutely to have anything more to do with me. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. \"Nice to meet you. But it’s very beastly. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. I suppose I believe in God. Constantly sick with the croup or diaper rash. She felt surges of longing escape every corner of her flesh. "If the best nag ever foaled were to throw me in this unlucky spot, I'd blow his brains out. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent’s Park. ’ ‘But—’ ‘You’ll get her all over blood again. Wood bore up with great fortitude against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took place on the day but one following—Sunday. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter.
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