A message was dispatched from Florence that she was to again receive her future husband. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. From the sounds of it, he was better off dead. “I don’t see there’s any getting away from the fact that you and I love each other,” he said, slowly. Won’t you come and have some tea with me? There is a new place in Bond Street,” he hastened to say, “where everything is very well done, and they give us music, if that is any attraction to you. “I was lonely.
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