‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. When I found you, you were almost completely insane. " While Mr. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. I'm neither an infidel nor an agnostic, so I'll content myself by saying that the hand of God is in this somewhere. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. Her dainty shoes were soiled with dust and there was a great tear in her skirt.
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