"Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. There was the motor accident, too. Hope reared. The air was pungent and leaden.
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