“What do you mean?” she asked. The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off, like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden partition. “You must not think of me as one. He was—a millionaire. “You are very good,” she said. It begins with that queer piccolo solo. Of course this thing was absolutely impossible. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them.
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