“My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. “The Miss Pellissier who was at White’s with us. “A silly little priestess who knew nothing of life at all until she came to you.
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