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Go to her and tell her. “You poor thing. He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed.
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