She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. I’m not half smart enough for the West End. ” She pointed to the envelope still resting upon the mantelpiece. “I am giving my understudy a chance.
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