Too late now. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. Certainly I never met him. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. 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. Mischief bubbled up in her. “She is living there now,” she remarked. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. " "Do you believe his failure caused…. ’ Madame ventured a glance up at his face, and fluttered her lashes.
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