Perhaps she was. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. She hoped that Shari would not be too brokenhearted about her disappearance. ‘It looked to me as if he was playing games with Madame Valade,’ Lucilla said frankly. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. She heard him come in; the light burned on.
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