Spiders came out of their hiding places to commune in windows, industriously spinning their own designs over the stained glass. ‘But I have been perfectly honest about that. I wonder whether you would mind, Lady Ferringhall,” he went on, with a sudden glance at her, “if I tell you that you yourself remind me a great deal more of what she was like then, except of course that your complexion and colouring are altogether different. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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