“Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. " "And were I in yours," rejoined the woollen-draper, "I should be doubly apprehensive, because he's a professed friend. ‘Madame, I trust I see you well?’ ‘Merci. I trust you will not accuse me of discourtesy if I express my pleasure that henceforth our ways will lie apart.
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