In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. "In the mean time, with your permission, I'll just make a few minutes of our conversation. “What have I done, Miss Pellissier?” he pleaded. His hand flew across the paper. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white.
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