Bring the link. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. "In spots you are a thoroughbred; but here's a black mark on your ticket, lad. He kissed her deeply and hungrily. ‘I’ll make you an offer. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. Get me an interview with her.
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