But his words were borne away by the driving wind. Sydney sprang up. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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