Gerald lost his head. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. “Enter Sir John, very honest, very much in love with me. "Oh! no—no—no," cried Winifred, "I cannot believe it. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself.
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