“Sold again,” she remarked. Sir John felt that after all forty-five was not so very old. That was one of the compensations for having consigned himself to this part of the world. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear.
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