She felt like a dried-up old woman. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. Sometimes I think you would have been much better off if you had been born in death-worshipping Egypt instead of in the Fourteenth Century. “An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key.
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