She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. In this letter, which is addressed to my ill-fated mother, he speaks of his friendship for Sir Rowland, whom it seems he had known abroad; but entreats her to keep the marriage secret for a time, for reasons which are not fully developed. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities.
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