Montague Hill. Wood. S. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. “I want to ask you a question,” she said abruptly. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. CONTENTS.
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