“Good evening, Dorling,” he said. “I confess it. ‘Her own,’ Gerald replied. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. Like the flaws of an old marble. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken cheeks. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy.
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