For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. Manning,” she said, “I warned you not to idealize me. “And to think that it’s not a full year ago since I was a black-hearted rebel school-girl, distressed, puzzled, perplexed, not understanding that this great force of love was bursting its way through me! All those nameless discontents—they were no more than love’s birth-pangs. It isn't your duty. He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day.
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