Through her door curtain she could see the light from the study lamp. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. \" He looked crestfallen. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries.
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