They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. Take my child to—it is—oh God!—I am sinking—take it—take it!" "Where?" shouted Wood. I knew it. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. “Is it your maid?” he asked.
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