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She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle.
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This video was uploaded to southwestbyways.info on 22-09-2024 08:32:29
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