“MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. Kentish family. "Good night. Nothing could exceed the dismay of these personages when they learnt why they had been summoned. She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. It began as a joke. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. ” Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. ‘As to that, I am at this moment altogether displeased with Gérard, you understand,’ Melusine temporised. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. Here your nephew will speedily be thrown. Marriage!—and no woman by to tell the child what it was! The shocks and disillusions she would have to meet unsuspectingly—and bitterly.
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