They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. I married—I married a woman whom I still think one of the most beautiful persons in the world. There were no mourners. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. And he who opposes me in it shall feel the weight of my hand.
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