She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. I’m going up to London with the Widgetts to that ball. ” He resumed, after a mouthful: “Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen, seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, in London. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. She cried out his name in ecstasy. He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing. I don’t suggest any philanthropy. She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet. . I hated the stuff. No window.
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