“My dear,” the letter ran, “I have to tell you that your sister Gwen has offended your father very much. For a moment she remained silent. "I will," answered the prisoner. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. He gripped the window-sill behind him. All the initial confidence in herself was gone; her courage was merely a shell to hide the lack. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley.
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