" "How long will you be here?" "To-morrow night. ” The dinner was admirable as a dinner; nothing went wrong, from the golden and excellent clear soup to the delightful iced marrons and cream; and Miss Stanley’s praises died away to an appreciative acquiescence. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. "Thank Heaven! I'm not basely born. One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others.
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