In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque. I done just what you asked. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. Nobody who cared. But she had loved the man. That’s Italians for you. EPOCH THE SECOND.
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