The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins. “I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. He was a wonderful little creature with a perfect tiny face, mottled pink cheeks, and eyes brighter than May. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate.
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