Wood, who were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal tête-à-tête of their own. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. His statement was treated with derision. “Mind my smoking?” said Roddy. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that. “What’s that for?” He said.
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