"The key," replied the widow. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. To lose was death, quickly and mercilessly delivered. He recognized the face instantly. Deuce take it! I was very near spelling my name with one P. They used to marry us off at seventeen, rush us into things before we had time to protest.
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