“My dear,” the letter ran, “I have to tell you that your sister Gwen has offended your father very much. It would be an ice storm by midnight if it did not let up. I've a couple of kinchens in yonder rattler, whom I wish to place under old Sharples's care. 4. I believe that her ladyship is going to Carey House, and on to the Marquis of Waterford’s ball,” he added, hastily consulting a diary on the hall table. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. ‘Will you let be?’ Instead she grasped his hand tighter. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew.
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