"Winifred Wood will never marry, unless the grave can give up its dead. But she doesn’t and won’t divorce me. "I will struggle no longer with destiny. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. At the cost of quite a number of torn drafts she succeeded in evolving this: “DEAR MR.
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