Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. ‘I have said that I will tell you nothing of this soi-disant Valade. "If you've a fancy for the girl, we might do it.
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