The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. From a bi-secting street came shouting and music. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random.
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