‘Because she, naturally enough, does not consider that it is in any way my affair. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. But at the word “home” she turned again. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world.
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