Her impressions of this cardinal ceremony were rich and confused, complicated by a quite transitory passion that awakened no reciprocal fire for a fat curly headed cousin in black velveteen and a lace collar, who assisted as a page. She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. "So did I," answered Jack; "we had better move on. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. For each costume she had devised a suitable form of matrimonial refusal. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. He closed the door.
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