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“If I do,” he said. F. . Wood heard the cry. “Cheveney!” she repeated. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. “How crude you are, Anna!” she exclaimed with a little sigh. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones.

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