“I love you. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette. Prudence shook her head. “You don’t want to go?” “No. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better.
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