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"I cannot sign it," returned Trenchard. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. He hesitated. “Come to my rooms and have a drink. This is your choice. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder.
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