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She was looking depressed, and much older. Her eyes were bedimmed, and wandering helplessly from piece to piece of furniture, from wall to wall.

"And she does not even feel any love for him! A cold-hearted being, made for nothing but to chop logic! And he—for her, for her &hellip; ! Ah, the cruel wrong! Why has this come to me?"

She put her hands up to her head and sobbed aloud. &hellip;

Suddenly she snatched the letter from me, and crumpled it up, and tore it all to pieces with angry fingers.

"How I hate, oh, how I hate that woman!"

I brought her a glass of water to calm her nerves, thinking all the time how much, in this, her unjust outburst of fury, she was preferable to the other—the magnanimous, serene, lofty-minded New Woman.

Smilowicz, of all men in the world! was awaiting me outside the office to-day.

Time, I thought, had for an instant run backward; and the Past, so terribly gone and forgotten, was before me.

"What! You!" I exclaimed; "you, back