On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. I might have known it. You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you. Here are their letters.
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