I have counted you, and always hoped to count you, the best of my friends. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. I can’t even carry a tune with a bucket. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. “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.
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