" "Then, I'm quite easy," cried Winifred, joyfully. You simply can't get good oil down there, so I must husband the few drams I carry. Parbleu, but she was a fool. " "Don't worry about that. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. “I think,” she said, “that I will tell you everything. “John, of course I forgive you if it is what you need from me. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy.
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