“MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. How are you?” “I’m fine,” she said, unaware of all events except for the voice on the other line. Here we are absconding, pretending to be what we are not; shady, to say the least of it.
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