I can’t love you. ‘Me, I have a name. Someone had thoughtfully wrapped a bit of tissue paper round the electric bulb. . Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. There were the burnt papers still in the grate.
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