He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. ’ ‘Poor little devil,’ said Gerald, genuinely sorry for her.
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