“Yes. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. They mean something. “Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously. "He who stands on the verge of the grave, as I do, should never be unprepared.
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