I was looking for rooms last week. Wood, glancing angrily at her husband. His eyes were bright with the hunt. But how to avail himself of it was the question, for in his present garb he was sure to be recognised. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father.
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