He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. “Steady on!” he cried. There was a wild light in her eye, and her straight hair was out demonstrating and suffragetting upon some independent notions of its own. “He’s quite the inventor. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply.
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