9. . “You poor little girl!” he cried. He continued tenderly, almost affectionately. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. Marvel, then, took two iron weights, each of a hundred pounds, and placed them in the press. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment. Threw it out.
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