“We have to be— modern. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. He waited. He was wrapped in a loose dressing-gown of light material, and stood near the corner where the women's dresses had just been thrown down, quite out of sight of all the party, except Mrs. Of course. He found the door ajar, and, to his surprise, perceived little Winifred seated at a table, busily engaged in tracing some design upon a sheet of paper.
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