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That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. He saw three people: a young man at the piano, an elderly man smoking in a corner, and a young woman reclining in a chair, her eyes closed. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. Trust you. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. And from that point they went on to a thoroughly embittering wrangle.
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