“For instance?” She smiled. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. 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. ’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Lucilla enthusiastically.
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