“It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. 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. “You certainly are. "Done!" cried Shotbolt. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. ‘He was very kind to me.
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