"My old coco is disintegrating. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. Love lives on a higher plane.
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