And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. 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. CHAPTER I. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us. I’m not half smart enough for the West End. Sheppard, meekly.
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