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You two can talk in Lucy and Shar’s room for a few minutes. Vanity was a vice not just to be deprecated, but effectively strangled at birth. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. She felt she was bound in honor to tell the whole affair to Manning sooner or later. While he thus vented his rage, the door again opened, and Quilt Arnold rushed into the room, bleeding, and half-dressed. ‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. Lucy had been ignoring her, not purposefully, but noticeably.
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