’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. “My arrival appears to be opportune,” he said stiffly. “She found my collection of witchcraft books under my bed and threw them away. I do not wish for you to see me feed. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. We had not then recovered from the shock.
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