Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. I must go to work again. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. ‘Unless he is himself a man of substance. ‘I am not a person, Marthe.
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