She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. “How did you find me?” He asked. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if only for a little while. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought.
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