She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. Married the other and ran off after Mary died. “Do you like my dress?” “Yes, the dress is beautiful, but you are much more beautiful than any dress. H’m. I am so amazed to see you here. And she defies me. Besides, I have my doubts that he is so very sick. His idea was to get behind this sustained listlessness. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out.
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