“We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us. “It was perhaps my fault. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. Of course there are, millions of them. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face.
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