The doctor smoked his pipe thoughtfully. I have only seen your sister for a very brief time, and I am a little past the age when a man does headstrong things. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. “If I sit here,” he said, standing up before her abruptly, “I shall have to shout. I believe that I have heard my sister speak of you. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. "Perhaps," replied Wood, doubtfully. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd.
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