“I should make sure that he doesn’t try to drive himself home. Now I have done something for which you might be pardoned if you did kill me. Don’t leave me in this beastly thing. "Where did you find it!" asked Wood. She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. .
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