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He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. " At this juncture, two women, very smartly attired in silk hoods and cloaks, appeared at the door of the Lodge. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance.
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