One day it was gone. She let out a wail. In a second the glass lay shattered upon the carpet. Then fury claimed her and she could no longer pretend. . I don’t wish to marry you at all. That Frenchie, that’s who she is. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. Time enough to do so when she has her affairs settled—if she can settle them. You see—I didn’t understand. The Return 231 II.
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