At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious. Shari was snoring soundly. “Eight, Cavendish Square. “I wonder,” he said, “is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?” “Can you think of anything?” Anna answered. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation.
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