It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. Too late now. Then he took the pulse. The Supper at Mr. My wife—killed me. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. We always go out to dinner on holidays.
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