She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. The months that followed September spiraled downward. “Look at me. 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. "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped.
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