You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. ’ The lady uttered a scornful sound. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. Not I. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy.
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