You've saved my life. “But how can you?” asked Constance. My sister made me over, you know. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. " "My wealth," replied Mrs. “Your teeth are chattering! I’ll make you some hot chocolate!” Cathy cried. I've opened the case of books. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason.
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