His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. 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. He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. Nothing to check their proceedings but a declining habit of telling the truth and the limitations of their imaginations. "Those chops, fried potatoes, and buttered toast.
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