’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly.
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