A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. Then Mr. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. They had both been unsuccessful. Good night. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea.
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