Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. “There is my aunt,” she said. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. I will confide it to Father Spencer, who will acquaint you with it when I am no more. ‘Small wonder in a way that he found hisself consolation elsewhere. Even, I do not mind to study this Latin so abominable.
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