“MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. 9. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being.
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