“I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. She laid her hand upon his arm. His mother smiled in return, an act that brightened her thin face. Wood had prevented him from paying much attention to the previous scene.
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