“Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder. Fortunately, I've secured the proof of my birth. "Thanks," he said, holding out a thin white hand. Wood's, the carpenter in Wych Street. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair.
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