“You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. He was damned if he knew what to do.
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