" "True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans. Then a bit of colour flowed into his sunken white cheeks. ’ ‘Hadn’t the wit, you mean. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. Talk to her of the new story; divert her; for this day her heart has been twisted sorely. ” She threw away the end of her cigarette. We have so many actresses who aspire to great things in the drama, not one who can interpret as you have interpreted it, the delicate finesse, the finer lights and shades of true comedy. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly.
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