" "And what should a young man like this one have to forget?" Prudence demanded to know. She missed them already. "How goes it?" he began, heartily. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. —'They have,' says he. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. But I'm not worrying about that.
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