Diedermeyer, sweetheart? He just went in. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. Wood in the deepest mourning. “Get me some brandy and my bag. ” “What case?” “A divorce—or something—I don’t know. Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task. Wood fared still worse.
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