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How she used to blush and lighten up when those letters came! How she used to trip away with a beating heart, so that she might read unseen! If they were cold, yet how perversely this fond little soul interpreted them into warmth.
If they were short or selfish, what excuses she found for the writer! It was over these few worthless papers that she brooded and brooded.
She lived in her past life--every letter seemed to recall some circumstance of it.
How well she remembered them all! His looks and tones, his dress, what he said and how--these relics and remembrances of dead affection were all that were left her in the world.
And the business of her life, was--to watch the corpse of Love.
To death she looked with inexpressible longing.
Then, she thought, I shall always be able to follow him.
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