I don’t want you to be sad. I suspect he has been at work upon those he has on. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. I have always loved you. And if sometimes I grow heady—and it's in the blood— remind me of this day when you took me out of hell—a thief. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before.
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