She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart. She, having all the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the contents—a letter and a check.
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