‘I do not understand you. She had to do her thinking at home—under inspection. It is very important because I have lost my proof. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. You might tell the truth to some men, but never to him. The release was so great that she felt tears spring from her eyes. That’s how it takes me.
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