—'They can't, I tell you,' says I, in a bit of a passion; 'it's unconstitutional. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. I have worn it for weeks and weeks. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests.
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