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Patricia preceded them to the corner where Elinor, rather pale and agitated, was holding back as Bruce tried to lead her to the model stand. Patricia thought that Bruce's insistence had something to do with the decoration, which was half forgotten by most of the company, and she laid a detaining hand on Elinor's other arm. His attitude at this moment was rather displeasing to his friends. He refused to permit anyone to see the chamber whence the body had been stolen, and even declined to discuss the matter or accept advice as to the best thing to be done. To all who spoke to him--and these were many--he had but one reply. "My missy tell me you wish to hear my Obi," she said, abruptly, fixing her eyes on the face of the visitor. "Why you wish? You laugh at Obi.".
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"Why, it's like a laundry," exclaimed Patricia in disappointment as she looked about her. The low-ceiled whitewashed apartment into which they had descended from the winding iron stair was sepulchrally bare and empty in the flicker of its noisy gas jets, the rusty gas stoves at its farther end emphasizing its general air of desolation. Bruce opened his eyes and sat up, piercing Patricia with a keen gaze. Evidently he found no reserve behind her words, for he broke into a laugh and shook his head at her. "I have, and to Mrs. Dallas, who declines to sanction our engagement. She wants Isabella to marry David, and said--" "He is all right for the time being. I have detailed a housemaid as nurse, and she knows what to do. I'll come back again in the morning and see if he has recovered his senses.".
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