’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. "It's not an offer," continued he, "that I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive every day in the year.
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