” She finished her breakfast and strolled out across the garden with the letters still in her hand. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. He was the junior of both his sisters, co-educated and much broken in to feminine society. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. ” She looked into her glass. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity.
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