Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. I believe—I believe that I must risk it. She would never, never go back. "What is it?" "The night," she answered. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died. ‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it.
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