” She smiled, sure of herself beyond any pretending, into his troubled eyes. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Then he had gone away. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. "I am twenty," said the girl. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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