“MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. He walked out into the Champs Elysées and sat down. But I do not love you. So far he had not stirred; from his bloodless lips had come no sound. The thought of beauty became an obsession. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst.
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