" "Do what you please with him," muttered Trenchard to Wild. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. You don’t know what you ask nor what you say. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. A message was dispatched from Florence that she was to again receive her future husband. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances.
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