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Oh, reader, is it a marvel that the Tresilian,—
"The flower of the west-end and all the world,"
could not restrain a wild yell of agonised rapture when he, who never bent, yet bent his gaze on her, and stooping for once in his life, stamped a seething red-hot kiss on her hand which, soldering her bracelet to her wrist, seared her white flesh through the scented gauntlet to her very palm, and claimed her as his partner in the "Mabel Waltz!"...
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