" "I will yield it to no one but its mother," answered Wood. ” “You are going to sing in London?” he said quietly. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore.
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