I hear her coming. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. She was particularly charmed by his theory of friendship. The inn was a military haunt. It had showed up at an auction at Sotheby’s after someone had sold it. Without Sheila, the denizens of the neighborhood might forget they had the ability to communicate with each other.
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