‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. “Do YOU go across the Park?” “Not usually. ". Her state of mind would have seemed altogether discreditable to her grandmother.
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