“You were born for great things,” he said huskily. "I'm not worth it. . A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. “Look here! Aren’t you going a little too far? This—this is degradation—making a fuss with sleeves. ” The lady in black satin appeared undecided. "I am come to render you a service. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks.
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