You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. I must!” She threw open the door and pointed to it. But I was portentous, I can assure you. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life. As long as your son observes that precept I'll befriend him, but no longer. See? You marry me. It is all very complex. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. “They seem to come to you as naturally as disappointment—to other people.
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