One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. " "Well, this young lady I was about to describe," said the doctor, "is Enschede's daughter. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. Call her Miss Pellissier, eh? I tell you she’s my wife, and I’ve got the certificate in my pocket. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. "So it is," the doctor agreed. Then she called a hansom and drove home. ‘I hope I do not understand you. She looked at him curiously. .
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