‘Ah, the tragedy. Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book. What of madame, his wife?’ ‘You know more of her than me,’ the girl said with a look of scorn. For she and this old lady became at once friends. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. Our land brings us in nothing.
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