" "Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English. “I don’t see there’s any getting away from the fact that you and I love each other,” he said, slowly. That's the job. "But if it is thy will to take me from him," she continued, as soon as her emotion permitted her,—"if he must be left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech thee, a mother's feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend, who shall be to him what I would have been. Most unsatisfactory. It began as a joke. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself.
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