It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. CHAPTER XXVII. Instead, they appeared to be at the hygienic level of tramps’ lodging-houses. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. ” “Upon my word,” he declared, “you are right.
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