" "Dere's de other door!" cried Mendez, in alarm. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. “You certainly are. I am an independent sort of person,” she continued, “and I am engaged in an attempt to earn my own living.
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