She drank her glass of wine, however, and clanked glasses good-naturedly with Mr. "You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. “Will he die?” she asked. He sent me home. The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake. ‘But you are idiot. Come.
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