My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Your pets are gone. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. “I hope that it has not done any harm.
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