Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. This also struck her as odd. She took up the poker and stirred the fire vigorously. I don’t know. Like the nuns, she hardly ever looked in a mirror.
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