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Laughed at me, then. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. I shall have no faith in future in bolts and bars. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded.
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