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Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. " "Och! if he's a friend o' yours, my dear joy, there's no more to be said; and right sorry am I, I struck him. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. He mumbled an apology and then stopped short. And now, a fair exchange, Sir. I just wanted a breath of air.
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