Smith. "No"—as if her thoughts were elsewhere. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. Wood," she cried, as the staff fell from his grasp. " "Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English.
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