“I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. She was no longer there. "You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely. ” She said, studying his face, which seemed to lose its childishness a little more with each day. " "But, Lord, man!—don't you ever get lonesome?" "Don't you?" "I'm too busy. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. “I don’t mind, of course, your seeing her sometimes, still there are differences— differences in social atmospheres. ” “It was a delightful piece of good fortune that I should have met you,” he answered.
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