“MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings. " At this moment, Saint Sepulchre's clock struck six. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. But let that verse tell my secret. She limited herself to eating once a fortnight, until she discovered that she could go without comfortably for a month. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it.
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