He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. “Eight, Cavendish Square. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. If you love me, do not allude to this subject again. Would you stand by me—and her?” “My dear Nigel!” she exclaimed. This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be.
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