" "Never mind it, my dear Mrs. The lad had just barely jangled it, when hurrying footsteps could be heard inside. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. “Won’t you give me your address?” She shook her head. Recurrently she heard: "I don't know; I really don't know. “You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. His favorite newspaper was the Times, which he began at breakfast in the morning often with manifest irritation, and carried off to finish in the train, leaving no other paper at home. I wouldn't accept my life from him. Eggs were procured for her, and she sat out the subsequent emotions and eloquence with the dignity becoming an injured lady of good family. Which is why I wasn’t able to see him until today. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face. Glad to get back, I’m sure,” he said briskly.
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