Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. All his dreams shattered in an instant. “Until a girl can go away as a son does and earn her independent income, she’s still on a string.
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