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If words were tones, and smiles, and eye-flashes, and lip-curlings, I could tell you not only what Margaret said but how she said it, and how, in saying it, she made mad sweet music ring within me. We were out in the square again now, threading our way among people I hardly saw for being so wrapt up in her. "Was she a pretty ghost?" "Very," said I decidedly. "How old was she?"
The room, facing north as it did, looked a little cold in the early light, but it was still stamped with the impress of its former occupant. The flowers he had given her only yesterday hung their heads in modest welcome, and half a dozen eye-flashes revealed half a dozen homely little details that were full of reassurance.
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