But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. ‘We don’t know who she is. Innumerable little puzzles were instantly solved. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. “Surely!” he remarked, with an expression of worried appeal.
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