“Why not?” Lady Lescelles answered. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake. In reply to this summons a horn was instantly blown at the corner of the street. The few pence left in her purse would only provide a very scanty lunch. “This is the slavery of the veiled life.
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