“You permitted me then to call you my friend. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. “It was the night you left Paris. It was obvious that he had waited for her. Why doesn’t she marry? Plenty of money under her father’s will. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue.
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