" "He has done too much already," answered the widow. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. ” “It is you,” he cried, “you, who are talking folly, when you speak of friendship between you and me.
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