“MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. I’m going up to London with the Widgetts to that ball. You are doing your best to break our friendship. I could not have spoken to her. I’ve had it, Sheila. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. I suppose it depends on her own state of mind. She gave tongue to the most urgent of her plaints.
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