The air was pungent and leaden. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. She drank her glass of wine, however, and clanked glasses good-naturedly with Mr. I was a novelty. ‘Cover her, men. Maggot. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait.
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