” She drove off in a little fiacre, nodding and smiling at Sir John, who remained upon the Avenue. She sensed that he was looking for her. "That's it!" cried Wild when Trenchard concluded. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. If only to say goodbye. . He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. These two elderly ladies would call her stark mad. The crowning aspect of the incident, for her mind, was the discovery that he and her indiscretion with him no longer mattered very much.
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