Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. good, miss. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better.
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