6. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. Oh! I'm in such a fluster!" Upon which, she snatched up her fan, cast a look into the glass, smoothed down her scarf, threw a soft expression into her features, and led the way into the next room, whither she was followed by her daughter and Thames Darrell. ‘You, Mademoiselle Charvill, are as unlike most of your sex as you can be. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort. ‘Lord, no! I’ve a better regard for my skin, I thank you. "Kiss me. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty.
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