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A message was dispatched from Florence that she was to again receive her future husband. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate. For the present the desire to fly was gone. My father thought the latter. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. “And where are YOU going?” he said.
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