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it's poor me. Have pity on me. Take me up and make me light!'"

By degrees as she progressed in this remembrance, the hand was raised,
the last ecstatic look returned, and she became quite beautiful again.
Having so paused for a moment, silent, with a listening smile upon her
face, she looked round and recalled herself.

"What poor fun you think me, don't you," she said to the visitor. "You
may well look tired of me. But it's Saturday night, and I won't
detain you."

"That is to say, Miss Wren," observed the visitor, rather weary of the
person of the house, and quite ready to profit by her hint, "you wish


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