All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. And to think that man got it all out of the poorest little love-story for a respectable titled lady! Have you read of it?” “Never. A day will come when you will thank me. His bravado waxed and he asked her to what would be her first date in nearly twenty years. I know he is dead.
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