I am having them to my own soirée on Monday. I'll not speak of Jack or Jonathan. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. He meditated, and began a new paragraph.
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