“MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over —and my toasted scones are delicious. Trenchard glanced at the document. It is putting all my dreams out of joint. ‘How she pouted, and tried to make out that she had been imposed upon. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson.
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