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‘You cannot read my mind at all, monsieur. Courtlaw, is it not,” she remarked, with lifted eyebrows. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. For a time it really seemed all-sufficient to her that she should love. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. S. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. .
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