The aunt rushed over to her nephew, knelt and wrapped him in her arms. “He is one of our guests—perhaps I should say boarders here, but he seldom returns before dinner-time. ‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered. Then he opened them again suddenly, to find Courtlaw still by his side. Wood hadn't struck me. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. He resolved to judge for himself.
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