It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. " "Only three days," reiterated the widow, "three short short days,—and then all is over. And don’t tell me what you’ve been up to, dashing off to Remenham House with that Kimble lad, and Lord knows what besides, because I don’t want to know.
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