Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. She went about the familiar home with a clearer and clearer sense of inevitable conclusions. Only an undermaid I was then. As he moved about upon the starling, Mr. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. At length, she suddenly started to her feet; and before Winifred could prevent her, staggered up to Thames. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. They are horrible.
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