“It’s my fault. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. Her hair was gathered up behind, in a sort of pad, according to the then prevailing mode; and she wore a muslin cap, and pinners with crow-foot edging. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. Wood. Would I could purchase his apathy as easily as I can procure his assistance.
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