The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. Then he sat down and filled his pipe slowly and thoughtfully. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream.
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