You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. And yet—I love you. This is no place for me. ‘How is this? Proo-den-ss. The agonized mother could scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze. .
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