What had happened to it? She had broken it, certainly. She came along with the fluttering assurance of some tall ship. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. " CHAPTER XIX.
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