‘General, we do not know. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. "Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. At the cost of quite a number of torn drafts she succeeded in evolving this: “DEAR MR.
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