One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. " "Wait a bit, massa," replied the grinning negro,—"lilly bit—see all right fust. "Your sympathy is being wasted. "Well, you never can tell," he continued, lamely. ‘I doubt it. ” “You mean you’re going to run away with me?” He asked in semi-seriousness. I hid because there was no other way of seeing you. ” “To bad rubbish.
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