‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. ‘Grace à dieu, he breathes still. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. Wood; "to be sure you are! I wonder how you dare show your face in this house, hussy!" "I thought you sent for me, Ma'am," replied the widow, humbly. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910.
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