And at length her penultimate day in Morningside Park dawned for her. ’ Miss Froxfield regarded him in some interest. “A very clear statement, madam,” he said. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured.
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