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It was a cheerless, gray December morning that John Wetherby came into his mother's room and found a sob-shaken little figure in the depths of the sumptuous, satin-damask chair. "Mother, mother, why, mother!" There were amazement and real distress in John Wetherby's voice. "There, there, John, I I didn't mean to truly I didn't!" quavered the little old lady.
We need scarcely say it was that terrible room the best; with three creaking, ill-fitting windows, and heavy crimson satin-damask furniture, so old as scarcely to be able to sustain its own weight. 'Ah! here you are, observed Mr. Jawleyford, as he nearly tripped over Sponge's luggage as it stood by the fire.
And she pulled from her pocket a crumpled slip of paper. And Jim read: Shall be there the 8th. For God's sake don't let me be too late. Wristers for Three The great chair, sumptuous with satin-damask and soft with springs, almost engulfed the tiny figure of the little old lady.
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