"Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. Send you the shirt. The Disguise 261 VI. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. ’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily. We always go out to dinner on holidays.
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