” He left the room, and she stood motionless, with flaming cheeks, listening to his retreating footsteps. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. But he knew. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. In the bad light he looked at once military and sentimental and studious, like one of Ouida’s guardsmen revised by Mr. Lucy treaded down two steps, stunned. ” She said.
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