There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. ’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. “Tell him to drive—anywhere,” she exclaimed.
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