Little girl, a memory without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure—an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment: is it not?
The light of the candles had as much soul in it as their smile; the tinkle of the bell as much significance as their laugh.
<...> nor did I refuse to let him, when seated, place me on his knee. Why should I, when both he and I were happier near than apart?
A woman who could betray me for such a rival was not worth contending for; she deserved only scorn; less, however, than I, who had been her dupe.
“No sight so sad as that of a naughty child,” he began, “especially a naughty little girl.
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