“MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. Only your horror of a grandfather insisted on coming with me, so I had to wait for him to be ready and travel at his pace. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. Everything was very neat; it had evidently been straightened up and kept for her. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend.
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