” “And what do you think I ought to do?” “Exactly!” He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. And in the vestry was the sword of monsieur le major. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. Not a word passed between them. “I haven’t a scrap—of this sort of aversion.
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