In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. She leaned over and kissed his cheek innocently. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly.
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