The picture of Mary Remenham was still on the wall. She wanted to take him in her arms and hush him, but she sat perfectly still. . Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage. And I am grateful to you.
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