This—all this swamps them. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. You cannot tell whether you know him or not until you have seen him.
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