It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. " "Ah! Did he tell you anything about himself?" "Aside from that, no. "Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. She turned her eyes to him again, and saw her late friend and pleasant and trusted companion, who had seen fit suddenly to change into a lover, babbling interesting inacceptable things. “A wonderful piece of work,” he declared. CHAPTER III.
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