Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. Wild is incapable of such baseness. It was drafty and cold most of the time, but she found that she was not nearly as sensitive to the cold as long as he was 99 there to warm her up. Fate! You are so frank so splendid! “I’m taking this calmly now,” he said, almost as if he apologized, “because I’m a little stunned. The moon had arisen, and everything could be as plainly distinguished as during the day. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. I will tell you what you shall give me, if you like.
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