"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. Will you not remember what has passed between us? I have the right to take my place by your side. But I don’t suppose you can understand.
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