“Why?” “I still love you. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. Very dark, like yours, ma’am. Shoplatch. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. The carte de jour was before Monsieur.
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