Capes was rather a discovery. No! I do not even know that he cares for me. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. She leaves town to-morrow. Pure romantic nonsense on her part.
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