Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. There was a look in her eyes which puzzled him. “Will they worry about you getting caught in a storm?” She asked him as she viewed black clouds floating in different directions. 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. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. . It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners.
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