" "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. I worshipped women long before I found any woman I might ever hope to worship. Lucy treaded down two steps, stunned. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. Save my seat. ” His father interjected. Denis. I care not. She moved a little nearer to him.
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