'—'Pretty well,' says I; 'you're not badly off at the Friars, for that matter. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. Perhaps it was loneliness. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood. "I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp. But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind. So it is that I do not do these things. ‘Least of all, one who takes advantage of another’s misfortune.
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