For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. “I haven’t seen the new Patience, dear,” she said. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman. Mike and Shari got jobs as well.
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