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Ar narrative, often interrupted by his tears,

put his two hands over his forehead and closed his eyes to think, or

to try to sleep, after giving uerite A fewtold ht sleep which the least sound banishes

This is what I read; I copy it without adding or o a syllable: To-day is the 15th Dece I stayed in bed The weather is dark, I am sad; there is no one

by me I think of you, Armand And you, where are you, while I write

these lines? Far from Paris, far, far, they tell uerite Well, be happy; I owe you the only

happyto explain all my conduct to you, and I have

written you a letter; but, written by a girl like ht seem to be a lie, unless death had sanctified it by its authority,

and, instead of a letter, it were a confession

To-day I am ill; I may die of this illness, for I have always had the

presenti My mother died of consumption, and

the way I have always lived could but increase the only heritage she