He smiled inwardly. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. Her slender throat was encircled by a black riband, with a small locket attached to it; and upon the top of her head rested a diminutive lace cap. Why should WE hoard? We aren’t going out presently, like Japanese lanterns in a gale. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already.
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