To-night we leave for Marseilles. They had both been unsuccessful. Her father had smiles ready for her, he seemed to be truly happy with her for the first time since her infancy. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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