I am not boring you, am I?” She raised her eyes to his and smiled into his face. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing. Gerald tried it. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon.
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