” “It is you,” he cried, “you, who are talking folly, when you speak of friendship between you and me. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. “It’s the centre of the intellectuals. Let us pass, Sir.
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