The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. It isn't for their sakes, it's for your own. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot.
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