So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. “Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. Oh! you young people!” The young man with the orange tie, in spite of Sisyphus-like efforts on the part of Goopes to get the topic on to a higher plane, displayed great persistence in speculating upon the possible distribution of the affections of highly developed modern types. He sat down beside her just as the room became darker.
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