Wood's," was the reply. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. Sir John and Annabel seated themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a waiter.
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