It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. "Yes, my angel, to her—rest her soul! She extorted it from me, and bound me by a solemn oath to fulfil it.
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