He turned back at once. "Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. “That is my dream of you,” said Manning, warming. That dress is thirty years old, if a day. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image.
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