“MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. ’ She turned her head, eyes blazing. Winifred pointed to the door. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. She was wan and white. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page.
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