“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. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing. " "Where are you going?" asked his mother. We WERE thieves. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone.
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