“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls. You must come and tell me all about it, although I am not sure whether we shall forgive you for not having written to any of us.
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