“Her husband was a county councillor, and she has a niece who comes to see her in a carriage. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. E. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. It was obvious that he had waited for her. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple.
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