At this juncture, the door was opened by Rachel. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. “As things are at present,” she said, “it is true. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery.
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