"I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. Then he remembered that she was Anna’s sister. You see—I didn’t understand. You’d make a good Devil. E. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. When he returned, it was always the same. She went down, feeling rather than seeing the way.
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