” She laughed. Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. 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. What he intended to do with it is of little consequence now.
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