"You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands. He may die. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. ” She looked at him with fluttering eyelids—sweetly grateful. She is no more English than that set of beggars over there. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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