A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. They were enormously pleased with one another; they found each other beyond measure better than they had expected, if only because of the want of substance in mere expectation. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. “It’s too bad. My son went down after his death. Used to play together, we did, all over Remenham House. She recovered herself, however, with amazing facility. linked image back linked image back MADEMOISELLE AT ARMS Elizabeth Bailey © 2011 by Elizabeth Bailey All rights reserved. I am not prying for my own amusement.
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