I have suspected him of possessing a skeleton key to my apartments. "Be it as you please," replied Winifred. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine.
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