The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. 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. In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. “Yes, John. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. In that sense, my strategy worked.
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