. 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. As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually slipping off the platform. The impassivity of her features changed at last. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. I suppose if one were to love some one, one would feel doubtful. I suspect she knew something, for she came home to Remenham House when she was increasing, and report has it that she was very unhappy.
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