To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child. She had been quite convinced that an engagement with him and at last a marriage had exactly that quality of compromise which distinguishes the ways of the wise. ‘Jacques!’ He stopped, but he did not turn. I could not hear his heart beat. Take care of the old clothesman, and leave the rest to me.
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