Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. The bed-and table-linen were of the finest texture. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources. And as a natural consequence, they don’t do so well, and they don’t get on—and so the world doesn’t pay them. "I don't quite understand the application. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend.
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